


Plan A

by TheRainbowKnight



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Deconstruction, F/F, F/M, Humor, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, Parody, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rewrite, Romance, Self-Insert, Torture, this is based on a really old fanfic I wrote a decade ago
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 53,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRainbowKnight/pseuds/TheRainbowKnight
Summary: In Plan B (a fanfic I wrote in middle school), the story of MW2 "changes" on account of a bad character by the name of Scarab.  But what if that was strictly told through the eyes of an unreliable narrator? What if Scarab deluded herself into believing she and Captain MacTavish had a thing for each other when in fact there's a convoluted love dodecahedron going on behind the scenes that nobody talks about? Embark on a wild adventure, where we dive into the story of Plan B from the perspectives of everyone but Scarab.Deconstruction and Parody of a decade old, shit-tier, self insert fanfic. A whole lot of M/M, M/F, F/F, love triangles, jealousy, and attempting to make sense of bad middle school writing.
Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Original Female Character(s), John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	1. When Your Boyfriend's a Thot

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I kept Plan B on my deviantArt. A few years ago, I packed that thing in a shuttle rocket and launched it to Wattpad just so I could delete it off of dA. It's staying there. My sister and I sat down and read the whole fic (It's absurdly long, over 100 chapters...) and decided it'd be a swell idea to rewrite it.  
> For those of you who want to subject yourselves to bad fanfiction, I will leave a link to Plan B for you. It's not necessarily required to make sense of this, since Plan B is being treated in this as Scarab being an unreliable narrator.
> 
> https://www.wattpad.com/story/47186930-plan-b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 1 and 2
> 
> 1\. Bar mission. Target, Alexander "wanted criminal." Scarab wears skimpy clothes. He comes onto her. Soap shoots/stabs him. They leave.  
> 2.They leave the bar "before the body can be discovered." Banter filled car ride, Scarab falls asleep. They arrive at the hotel.

**Berlin, Germany**

The game plan was simple, really. Scarab would lure their target away from prying eyes by acting down to fuck, and then the rest of them would jump in to apprehend him. Woman or not, Scarab was a member of the 141 and therefore should be up to the task. Captain MacTavish had no reason to believe otherwise.

He and Ghost watched from a table off to the side, casually dressed in order to blend in as regular bar-goers. Although Ghost couldn't wear his mask, he still wore those sunglasses despite them being indoors and in dingy lighting. In some sense, he wished he hadn't opted against the notion himself, it was a lot harder to keep an eye on what was happening from his peripheral vision.

Scarab arrived a few minutes after they did (the less they looked like they were all together, the better) dressed in skinny jeans and a tight v-neck shirt. Her leather jacket concealed her shoulder holster along with her pistol. Dolled up, with her hair in a short ponytail and a tinge of red to her lips, she played up the pouty, bored young woman persona. She approached the bar, ordered a beer, and leaned against the counter while strumming up conversation with the target.

It was difficult to hear what was said, but Scarab seemed relaxed enough as she bobbed her head with a giggle. Alexander downed the shot glass in front of him and got up, closing the distance between them and immediately trapping her between his body and the bar. Her hand came to the counter behind her and clutched the side while Alexander's hands roamed along her sides.

MacTavish narrowed his eyes. "Is he... kissing her?"

"Mhm," Ghost confirmed, his shoulders straightening. "He gets straight to the point, I'll give him that."

If this kept up, Alexander would find the gun on her. The man was an arms dealer, he wasn't stupid. If he found that, then odds were he'd realize what was happening and this whole operation would fall apart. MacTavish got up and took two steps towards them when Ghost caught him by the wrist.

"You'll make a scene," the lieutenant chided. "Let her figure this out."

MacTavish took a deep breath and nodded, taking his seat again. Watching was agonizing though. He was supposed to be in charge of these people, and to see one of his men in such a compromising position was a bitter pill to swallow. Alexander felt up along the backs of her thighs and gave her ass a firm squeeze.

Scarab immediately pushed him back, her lower lip a little swollen and lipstick somewhat smeared. She huffed and held her jacket closed.

"Hey, what the fuck's your problem?" Alexander questioned, loud enough to get just about everyone's attention.

"I didn't ask you to french me," Scarab retorted just as loudly, "what the hell's wrong with you?"

MacTavish met Ghost's sideways glance as this dispute began. This wasn't in the plan. She wasn't supposed to antagonize him like this. She needed to fix this, and fast.

"Nothing," Alexander said, dropping down to a more reasonable volume. He slipped in close again and seemed to whisper in her ear. Scarab's brows were pinched and she rolled her eyes while he wasn't looking. As if nothing happened, he was on her again. Instead of feeling her though, his hands kept hers pressed against the counter, further trapping her.

If she had agency at this point, she did a good job at hiding it. After a minute of this, he pushed her sideways and moved her away from the counter so he could lean against it and hold her back against his chest. He traced along the shell of her ear and then her neck with his lips. One arm looped around her torso while the other untucked her shirt from her pants to feel along her stomach. Whatever annoyance was originally present on her face drained with newfound discomfort.

She hurriedly said something, too quiet to hear this time, but Alexander laughed in response. This very public display only continued, getting more and more involved with each passing moment as he reached up and purposefully took a hand full of breast in his hand. Scarab squirmed in his grip, and at this moment made eye contact with MacTavish as she mouthed "Help."

MacTavish once again stood up and thankfully wasn't stopped by Ghost this time. He made a snap judgement to change the approach. He'd play the white knight here to defend the lady's honor, and hopefully he could piss Alexander off enough that he'd be willing to duke it out outside. He grabbed Scarab by the arm, making a point to squeezing her bicep a little too tightly. "Oi, what the hell are you doing?"

Indignant at this point, Alexander straightened up. "What, man? Can't I have a little fun? Is she your girlfriend or something?" He loosely pointed at Scarab as he asked this, but his glare was firmly fixed on MacTavish.

The Captain didn't flinch though. "No, I just don't like how you're treating the lady."

"How I'm treating her?" Alexander laughed. "Buddy, I'm not the one bruising her arm."

"C-could you let me go?" Scarab asked quietly.

MacTavish pretended to look surprised at his own grip before he let her go. Scarab drew back two steps from them as he turned back to Alexander and shot back, "And you were groping her."

"Who fucking cares? She was asking for it."

"I care. You don't do that."

Alexander jabbed his finger against his chest. "If she's not your girlfriend, then what? Your sister? You care a little too much."

There were plenty of excuses he could've picked from. "She's a friend..."

"Your friend came here and started flirting with me. I think it's pretty obvious what she wants, so why not you piss off." He pushed past MacTavish and grabbed Scarab by the back of the neck to force her into another kiss. Close up, it was clear he forced his tongue in past her lips and dug his thumb in under her ear at the slightest sign of her jaw tensing. She was wide eyed and panicked, but unable to pull away.

MacTavish ripped him off and threw the man to the floor. "Alright, buddy, you and me then. I'll show you how you treat a lady."

Taking the bait, Alexander snapped back, "You're not gonna quit, are you? Fine! Don't expect me to phone an ambulance." He got back up and threw a punch his way. Being heavily intoxicated though, it was remarkably easy to dodge the hit and catch his arm. MacTavish held the limb behind his back, forced him along towards the door, and kicked him out onto the sidewalk. Alexander tumbled head over heels, narrowly missing a couple of passersby, then shot up to his feet and came at the Captain again.

Before Alexander could get another swing in, MacTavish chopped the side of his hand into his throat, which was enough to force him to stop as he coughed and gagged. MacTavish grabbed and pinned him to the ground. There was no hope for Alexander then.

"You and I are going to take a little walk," MacTavish told him lowly, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

As the handcuffs clinked shut on Alexander's wrists, the arms dealer coughed out, "W-what the hell do you want from me?"

MacTavish patted him down and found a glock in a hidden holster in the waistband of his pants. He flicked the safety on and pocketed it. "Right now, for you to get your ass up."

Alexander reluctantly complied, and allowed himself to be lead down a nearby alleyway. Roach and Ozone stepped out from behind a dumpster, fully geared and each equipped with M9s, and secured the entrance to the alley. Ghost and Scarab rounded the corner to join very soon after.

Unsurprisingly, Alexander seemed to catch onto what was happening. "Oh, so you special military are after a small fry like me?"

Ghost approached and flanked MacTavish. "Don't be so modest, mate. We know exactly the kind of men you're doing business with. You should be proud."

"If you're expecting me to break customer confidentiality, you're mistaken," Alexander said, "I got my honor."

"Honor, huh?" Scarab retorted. "Could've fooled me."

Alexander scoffed. "Whatever, girl." His attention turned solely on the two directly in front of him. "So what's it going to be? Are you going to beat me down in this alley for information, or are you taking me somewhere with better mood lighting?"

"We came prepared to handle you here and now," Ghost returned, a smile curled his features. "'Course if you cooperate, we'll make this a lot more comfortable for you."

"I could just scream. You're in the middle of Berlin on a Friday night. Someone will hear me." Alexander threatened.

It was a cute notion, if nothing else. "You think we didn't account for that? The police know we're here," MacTavish told him.

"Fucking..." Alexander glowered at them. "Fine. I'll come quietly."

"That's the spirit." Ghost grabbed Alexander's shoulder to move him away from the wall, when the clatter of metal hit the pavement. The handcuffs lay under Alexander's feet.

It all happened in seconds. Alexander cold cocked Ghost, knocking the sunglasses off his face and causing the lieutenant to stumble back a step. MacTavish tried to restrain him, but Alexander ripped the M1911 from his shoulder holster and jammed the barrel into his own mouth. With a bang, blood sprayed the wall behind him and he collapsed in a gory heap.

Silence was replaced by the sound of startled dogs barking up the street and a few startled words in German outside the alley. The Task Force members were frozen stiff. How had they failed so close to success?

It was too familiar to Victor Zakhaev. MacTavish shook himself from the shock and turned away from the body. "We'd better leave."

\--- --- ---

It was important that they apprehend Alexander alive, as an HVI with potentially game changing intel on Vladimir Makarov. So to suddenly be down a lead on the terrorist, Ghost couldn't help but gawk at the body for a moment longer. The back of Alexander's head was a grizzly mess of broken skull fragments and brain matter. His hand was still tightly coiled around the Captain's gun. Ghost slipped it free from his fingers and let it hang heavily in his hand as he contacted HQ.

"... Command, this is Alpha 5. The target is KIA."

_"Roger, Alpha 5. We'll send available personnel to collect the body. Are you able to pack him in a bag before you leave?"_

"Negative, we don't have body bags on hand." Ghost glanced back at the dumpster. Laid atop it was a musty rug. "There's an old rug we could roll him in."

_"As long as the body's wrapped and out of sight, that should be fine. Command, Out."_

While Roach and Ozone kept watch at the mouth of the alley, Ghost pulled the rug over beside Alexander and kicked it open. The odor of mildew and dust wafted from this cheap, stained, polyester area rug. Maybe it was pretty, once upon a time, an affordable purchase for some giddy home owner. He wondered where the particularly dark spots came from, since it provided good distraction while he maneuvered the body on the edge of the rug.

Just as he was about to roll the body up, an extra pair of hands joins his. He paused and looked up at the Captain. His eyes were dark with the weight of failure and exhaustion. "Scarab and Roach are waiting by the sidewalk to flag down Meat when he gets here with the truck. Ozone and Royce are going to meet with Scarecrow and Heatstroke to pull out to the hotel as well."

Ghost nodded and with MacTavish's help, they rolled Alexander in the rug and set it against the side of the wall, out of sight from the street. The rug was a couple inches too short, so the soles of Alexander's shoes peaked out from the end of the bulky roll.

MacTavish set a hand on his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Sorry. If I was more careful, he wouldn't have gotten free and had the chance to kill himself."

"You didn't know he was picking the handcuffs," Ghost pointed out. To be fair, they knew that he was the slippery sort. But by that logic, Ghost had just as much blame for not checking those handcuffs. Remembering the gun, Ghost got the pistol out and handed it to MacTavish. "Shit happens, love."

MacTavish frowned at the gun and returned it to its holster. Ghost knew that the minute they reached the hotel, he'd be cleaning that thing. He was religious about it, just like Price used to be when it was in his hands.

When the trucks arrived, they piled in. Ghost had every intention of sitting beside MacTavish, but before he could slide into the middle seat, Scarab slipped in before him and took it. Ghost watched her get comfy in what very well was normally _his_ spot.

"You coming in?" She asked innocently.

It wasn't that big a deal. It was a car seat, right? Ghost sucked it up and sat next to her while Roach took shotgun. Meat was driving, which meant they'd be hitting all turns wide. For all of about three minutes, Ghost had sweet peace and quiet before Roach craned his head back and asked, "So, Scarab, was he a good kisser?"

Scarab's initial response was something of quiet shock at the question, so Ghost nudged her with his elbow to help prod an answer. She looked down bashfully, and then shook her head. "No. I didn't enjoy any of it. Frankly, I'm glad he's dead."

"Even though we were specifically told not to kill him," Ghost grumbled, crossing his arms and sinking in the seat.

Scarab bumped him with her elbow, "Lighten up, Ghost. He deserved to die anyways."

There were about a million and one things that you could do and say in the Task Force 141 that you'd get at least reprimanded for in any other division of military anywhere. Much to Ghost's chagrin, this blatant disregard for their objective would probably go unpunished. The best he could do was put on his best chastising tone. "But still, we needed him _alive_."

"Tell you what," Scarab jabbed, "next time you can dress like a whore, and you can convince the target to follow you out so we can jump him."

The lowest corner of Ghost's eye twitched as the intrusive mental image found itself in the forefront of his thoughts. So many questions to be said for that. Firstly, whore? If those clothes were Scarab's definition of whorish, he hated to imagine how she must be in her day to day life. Did she wear baggy sweats everywhere? He thought the outfit they threw together was pretty tasteful, personally, but maybe a woman's standards were different than a man's. Secondly, he wasn't sure if him in a deep v-neck and skinny jeans would have quite the same effect.

He'd probably wear it better, if he was being completely honest with himself.

Scarab shifted so she could rest while they drove. The "hotel" was an outpost in a town a couple hours Northwest of Berlin on their way to a different outpost in Hamburg, where they'd be able to take a helicopter back to their base in the U.K. Hamburg would be an almost four hour drive, so the driving was being split in half at that outpost so they could refuel the trucks and catch forty winks before hitting the road again. If he didn't particularly care about the prospect of sleeping while Meat drove, Ghost probably would have taken a nap himself.

The car turned left, and Ghost heard the sound of shifting next to him. Sure enough, Scarab moved right and had her head propped on MacTavish's shoulder, eyes still shut and seeming asleep. The Captain met his glance with a confused one of his own. Deciding not to think too deeply on this, Ghost turned his head and ignored this.

Who did Scarab think she was, taking his seat?

Another left turn. Yet again, Scarab moved further right. If Ghost doubted she was actually asleep before, he was sure she wasn't now. Ordinarily if someone were slipping to the side with momentum onto the person beside them, they would slip down their chest from the shoulder and end up in their lap. Scarab pushed further right until she was nuzzling MacTavish's fucking neck!

But, of course, MacTavish didn't seem about to do anything about this either. In fact, he looped his arm over her shoulder. Ghost wasn't the jealous type, but in that singular moment, he never wanted to kick Scarab out of a moving vehicle more since he first met her. She was deliberately (boldly, no shame whatsoever!) cuddling up against her CO. At least Ghost exercised a little discretion when he sought the man's affection. This was just unfair!

And the look MacTavish gave him when he caught him staring? It was some sweet, little look that said "it's not a big deal."

It was over an hour of this. MacTavish attempted to move her back to the middle at one point, perhaps feeling a touch guilty for having her there for well over half an hour, but this whole cycle repeated again at every intersection. The kicker? She didn't even try to pretend to lull to the left when they turned right. In fact, he caught her visibly tense to avoid doing just that. If MacTavish somehow hadn't noticed, then he was a bigger muscle-head than Ghost took him for.

At long... long last, they arrived at the hotel. Meat parked and MacTavish "woke" Scarab up. Ghost couldn't stomach anymore of this bullshit and climbed out of the car. He didn't get a chance to close the car door when Scarab tried to climb out behind MacTavish and watched her fake a fucking trip on her way out just so the unwitting Captain could catch her. Ghost slammed his door with a lot more force than needed, not that either of them noticed.

Were MacTavish's fucking eyes on her cleavage? They'd better be the best knockers he'd ever fucking seen because they'd be the last thing he'll see at this rate.

After a second too long of that position, Scarab easily righted herself and rubbed the back of her head with a bashful giggle.

"Clumsy much," MacTavish asked, decidedly amused.

"Um... Yeah." Scarab retreated to the outpost after that. She probably realized she laid it on a little too thick. As she went, Heatstroke, the other woman in their Task Force, fell in step beside her and they chatted on their way in.

After she was gone, MacTavish slipped his arm around Ghost's shoulder, but the lieutenant brushed him off and started to walk to the entrance. MacTavish groaned behind him. "You're mad, aren't you." It wasn't a question. He damn well knew what Ghost's anger looked like.

"Inside," was Ghost's one word response.

MacTavish nodded and followed along. The outpost itself wasn't impressive. It was pretty small with minimal security. Considering it was in Germany, there wasn't a demand for much more than a chain link fence, security cameras, and a few guards. In the broadest of strokes, the nickname of "hotel" wasn't all that far off either. The team split off in a few different dorms that looked modest but comfortable. They even got a hot meal.

In their shared room, Ghost sat cross legged on one of the beds and stared straight at the wall. MacTavish slipped in beside him and once again wrapped himself around Ghost. "What's wrong?"

Ghost's sickly sweet smile dripped with sarcasm. "Did you really need to snuggle with Scarab the entire car ride?"

"No, I just thought it would funny is all," MacTavish said, pulling him in close so he could rest his chin on the top of Ghost's head.

Ghost's back bent to accommodate the position, on account of him being the slightly taller of the two. Even though MacTavish couldn't see it, Ghost scowled. "What? So annoying me is funny?"

"That's nothing new."

"There's a difference between you smacking chewing gum and this. A big difference." He punctuated his statement by bumping his head up, causing MacTavish's teeth to lightly clack.

"It's not that big a deal, Ghost, really," MacTavish claimed. "I didn't think you could be so jealous over nothing."

Ghost pushed himself from MacTavish's arms to properly glare at him. "I'm not jealous over nothing."

There was a real challenge in MacTavish's eyes, the very same he got with all his stupid bets. " _This_ was nothing."


	2. Friends of My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 3 and 4
> 
> 3\. Group is followed, they take Soap, Meat, and probably others (+Heatstroke too I guess). Warehouse to the west. Apparently Soap tried to break out via body slam door. Rest of the group rescues them. They return to the hotel.  
> 4\. Scarab wakes up early, balcony scene (TM). Soap has a dead girlfriend? Soap leaves. Heatstroke confused.

Sometimes Ghost wondered if he forgave MacTavish's behavior a little too easily. In the moment though, as those large hands gripped at his shoulders and his legs held him in close, the lieutenant found it incredibly difficult to stay mad. His CO didn't look it to anybody else, but in private, he was very _physical_ with his affections. This time, there was an added tenderness as MacTavish peppered his collarbone with kisses and swore up and down that he loved him.

When all was said and done, Ghost was tucked in under MacTavish's arm and the two of them quietly spoke in the dark room. It was normal, and comfortable.

From seemingly nowhere came a loud, booming knock. Both men stiffened with alarm and separated. MacTavish was on his feet in a second, rounding the bed and approaching the door all the while fumbling to pull on his pants.

Ghost sat up and turned his attention from MacTavish's back to the door. "It's two in the bloody morning, who could that be?"

"How the hell should I know?" MacTavish grumbled, reaching for the knob. "But we can find out."

"Wait, you're not going out there, are you?" Ghost hurriedly searched for his shirt (discarded at the end of the bed) and threw it on. "What if it's a trap?"

MacTavish paused and deadpanned, "Ghost, don't be such a worry wort."

They were in a military outpost, albeit probably the least defended one he'd ever seen. Who in their right mind would sneak in, just to bang on some poor sod's door? The notion was absurd. Odds were it was another one of Meat's stupid pranks.

Without further delay, MacTavish opened the door and took a two steps outside. He scanned either direction and turned back to the doorway, bemused. "Well that's weird. It's deserted out here."

His gut had become a disturbed wasps nest. Ghost slipped off the bed. "Doors don't just bang for the fun of it." If it was Meat pulling a prank, they would have heard a door close. Movement caught his eye. It was the shadow cast on the beige wall behind the Captain that gave it away, a hand reaching towards him. "Look out behind you!"

Whoever it was gave up on stealth and threw himself on MacTavish, knocking him one way and out of sight. The sounds of a struggle continued in the hall.

Ghost didn't wait, he charged to the door to help MacTavish, but just as he reached the threshold the door slammed shut in his face. His vision flashed as he tumbled and fell on his back. He lay there in a daze as the sounds of the struggle turned distant. He tasted iron on his lips.

"If you want half your team back," a man with a thick German accent shouted through the door, "then return Alexander to the warehouse west of here. We will be waiting."

His head was pounding as he processed those words. Half the team? Who else did they take? These were probably colleagues of Alexander's. They couldn't trade him back even if they wanted to.

"...Bloody hell..." Ghost groaned and dragged himself up. Standing made everything feel worse as he swayed and nearly toppled on his way to the door. There was a spatter of blood on the wood, a small one. When he finally came into the hall, there was no sign of the kidnappers, or of MacTavish.

However, Scarab, Roach, and Royce were all out in the corridor. Roach was gripping Scarab's arm as he told her sharply, "Don't. We know where they're going, so we can get them back." He turned back towards Ghost, hopeful and trusting. "Right, sir?"

Ghost nodded slowly and rubbed the blood from under his nose. Sure enough, he was expected to carry the team, probable concussion or not. "Yeah. Get your gear."

\--- --- ---

"Look out behind you!"

In that instant, MacTavish was tackled sideways by some man in a ski mask. He did everything he could to break free, or at the very least wear this bastard down. Before he could though, this guy's friend drew his pistol and struck the damn thing at MacTavish's head.

Jesus, if that didn't fucking hurt... Thankfully for MacTavish though, he boasted a thick skull and wasn't incapacitated by being pistol whipped. He craned his head back and fixed them both with a furious glare. One of them stammered something, but before either of them could think to hit him again, he broke free and sprinted full tilt down the hall.

He got ten meters when he heard the door slam behind him, along with an added fumble. Was that Ghost? MacTavish briefly looked back to see the two men, one with his hand planted against the door and the other giving chase. 

Out of nowhere, something swung out and cracked him over the side of the head, and this time he was out like a light.

It had to be a couple minutes later. He was being dragged. The words that they were speaking around him were either garbled or not English. MacTavish wasn't sure. He'd never really know for sure. He passed out again as quickly as he came to.

When he woke up, it was with such a severe sense of vertigo that he nearly threw up. With an immense amount of willpower, he swallowed the flash flood of saliva and forced his stomach to behave. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was propped in a chair and leaned against the wall. His captors were chattering quietly by the door, casting stray glances his way. Within minutes, one of them left and the other leaned against the wall to keep an eye on him.

This wasn't exactly an unfamiliar situation to him. More annoying than usual, since he was caught wearing literally no more than his pants and socks. And one of said socks was soaked. And his head felt like it was kicked by an ornery mule. But he could figure a way out of this, right? First, he'd just need to collect a little information.

He played it as cool as he could and asked, "What is this?"

Ski-Mask-Guy rolled his eyes. "What do you think it is?" Sweet, sweet English... He definitely had a German accent though.

"A hostage situation?" MacTavish guessed.

His captor dipped his head in affirmation.

"To what end?"

"What end? It should be obvious. Your team has taken our colleague, Alexander. They can have you and the others back when he's returned."

MacTavish chewed the inside of his lip. There was no good way of breaking it to these guys that Alexander was dead. They might take it upon themselves to even the score if they heard that. They couldn't return Alexander, so one of two things needed to happen: Ghost needed to save their asses, or they needed to save their own asses.

Ordinarily, it's advised you wait it out and try not to piss anybody off. MacTavish, however, was not a patient man.

The moment that Ski-Mask-Guy turned his attention off of him, MacTavish sprang to his feet and charged over to the door. Before he could be restrained, he kicked the door wide open and ran out into a larger room full of crates. The guy gave chase, shouting several things in German, which prompted four other guys to come out of the woodwork to help him.

There was a door at the far side of this warehouse, hopefully leading outside, but as MacTavish hurriedly fumbled with the knob, he discovered with sinking dread that it was locked. The five men circled now, and in that moment he took to hopping foot to foot and praying that if he moved as erratically as humanly possible, then he could jouk them and break away.

Really all it did was cause the lot of them to start snickering and jabbering in German, punctuated with a few "Oooo~"s.

What the hell was "Schlong en younger?"

Maybe he did a better job at distracting himself, because one of those guys ended up behind him in that time and kicked him in the backs of the knees. He buckled and only then did it sink in that he probably just made a bigger idiot of himself than he needed to.

Ski-Mask-Guy grabbed him by the mohawk and said, "That was a cute display. Now I suggest you cooperate."

He was a moment away from complying when the door behind them flew open. Gun shots ripped the air, and before MacTavish so much as blinked, his captors were all dead.

Royce took two steps into the room. "Clear."

Ghost was next into the warehouse. "MacTavish, good to see you're in one piece."

With one good look, MacTavish immediately realized what happened earlier. "They broke your nose, huh?" He had hastily thrown on his balaclava to boot, and now the mandible and teeth were stained red.

The lieutenant shrugged. "Do you know where the others are being held?"

"There are doors on the far side. Could be in any of those," MacTavish answered.

"Alright. Royce, Roach, on me. Scarab, see if you can't get those handcuffs off him."

Scarab scurried over and patted down the bodies until she came across a set of keys in one of these arms dealers' jacket pocket. She unlocked the handcuffs. "They didn't hurt you, did they, Captain?"

"Just a little bump on the head, I'll live." MacTavish got up and stretched his stiff shoulders. His head definitely still hurt, and he was still was mildly dizzy, but there was nothing to be done about that. "Nothing you should worry about anyways."

It was only then that he noticed that she was rather keenly watching him. In fact, as a chill seeped down his spine, he became distinctly aware that he still wasn't fully dressed. With any other person, and in any other circumstance, he wouldn't care, but Scarab followed every pull and squeeze of his muscles. He wasn't bashful, certainly not about his own body. Yet he stopped stretching and crossed his arms.

"What happened to the soldiers at the outpost?" He asked, hoping she'd take the bait and stop focusing on him.

"They're fine. Apparently those kidnappers made a distraction a short distance from the outpost that drew the lot of them out." She answered, but otherwise seemed fully content to keep eyeing.

The moment Ghost returned with the others in tow, the lot of them marched back to the outpost. One of the soldiers stationed in the lobby nervously rubbed his head as they passed. The Sergeant there came up to them and tripped over some hasty explanation and apology.

The brilliant distraction these arms dealers turned kidnappers used?

Sparklers.

Ordinary. Sparklers.

When he returned to his room with Ghost, the two of them more or less collapsed back into bed, both bemoaning their aching heads. MacTavish had to usher Ghost to the bathroom to deal with his nose, because he was starting to stain the sheets. Soon, Ghost came back with a wad of tissues in his now much less crooked nose and they cuddled up and groaned in pain together.

"What the fuck was going on when we saved you? You weren't with the others," Ghost wondered.

MacTavish mumbled into his hair, "I tried to escape. Didn't pan out. I think I made a fool of myself."

"For trying to escape?"

"No. I tried to jouk 'em and they just started laughing and going 'oooo schlong en younger' or whatever."

Ghost turned his head slightly. "Mate, I don't think that's actual German..."

"Are you going to tell me you know four languages now?"

"No."

"Then _shhhhhhhhh_..." MacTavish nuzzled into his head. "Sleep time."

It was a peaceful couple more hours of rest. MacTavish woke up before Ghost though, at the earliest ass crack of dawn, and decided that now was as good a time as ever to have a smoke. He untangled himself from Ghost, and moved as carefully as he could so as to not wake him. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes and lighter from his tactical vest, tugged on his jacket, then stepped out on the very little balcony shared between his room and the next one over.

The sky was just beginning to lighten and was tinged a faint mauve. Thoughtlessly, he slipped a cigarette from the pack and held it with his lips while he lit it.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye, and only then realized that he wasn't alone out here. Scarab was on the other side, watching the early sunrise. He pocketed his lighter and smokes and decided to break the silence. "Can't sleep?"

Scarab looked his way, initially startled by his sudden presence. Her eyes flicked down at his chest, and he cursed himself for not zipping his damn jacket up. Especially when that faint bit of color flashed to her cheeks. "What are you doing out here?"

"Same as you, having trouble sleeping." Concussions would do that to you. MacTavish took a drag off his cigarette and watched as Scarab nervously fidgeted back and forth in place. Honestly, she made it no secret (or at least no good one) that she had the hots for him. Flattering as that was, he didn't feel the same way about her. She felt more like a little sister; didn't help she was half a decade younger than him and it showed. When she nuzzled up on him earlier that night, he really did only respond to it to annoy Ghost.

She turned to him again, brushing a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Actually, I just really like mornings. They're calm, you know?"

General sleep problems. Population: only him, apparently. He shrugged and replied, "Calm's nice and all, but personally I like activity."

"Well I see nothing wrong with that," she agreed. Of course she would. She kept playing with that one strand of hair that she couldn't seem to tuck away. "Uh, Captain?"

MacTavish breathed a cloud of smoke out his nose and gave her a wayward glance. "Yeah, Scarab?"

"I, well, uh..." She trailed off, her anxiety becoming more and more apparent with each passing moment. This was honestly becoming a little... pathetic...

He didn't remember him or Ghost having this sort of weird, awkward pining. Actually, he was pretty sure he and Ghost's relationship started with a mess of drunken kissing a few New Years ago. All the same, he couldn't let this confession stand. He had to let her down here.

If he could just somehow put this someway that wouldn't absolutely devastate her, that would be the best. The less upset she was about this, the better. He turned towards her and very calmly rested a hand on her shoulder. "I know."

Her face was absolutely red at this point as she looked down at her feet. MacTavish coaxed her to look him in the eye as he continued:

"I like you too-"

"W-wait! You like me too?"

There was supposed to be a "But" in there. This was getting all the harder to squash this problem. She looked absolutely excited, eyes aglow. In some backwards sense, that optimistic energy was painfully reminiscent of his younger sister. He needed to soften the blow, and so he pulled her into a hug and gave her a small kiss of the forehead. It was something he was very comfortable doing, particularly where his sister and Ghost were concerned. He opened his mouth to break the news that he didn't like her in the same way when suddenly she bounced up on the balls of her feet and kissed him.

Welp. This was not in the plan. This was the exact opposite of the plan. He needed to do a full stop and 180 back on track. That kiss lasted five seconds maximum, and only because MacTavish was caught so off guard that he delayed in pulling away. When he finally did, he awkwardly apologized. 

"Sorry for what?" She asked.

His arms loosened around her. "I shouldn't."

"Why shouldn't we?" She questioned.

At that point, he let her go and stepped back, crossing his arms. Yes, why was a very good question. One he needed to answer now. "I-I just can't."

_Smooth, John..._

"Listen. Scarab. I'm not... emotionally available." There. Okay, better. He needed to keep doing that. "There's someone I really care about, and I'm not about to let them down."

Scarab stared at him, in the strangest sense calculating. "You've got a girlfriend...?"

"No. I don't have a girlfriend." The moment he said that, he immediately regretted it. If he didn't have a girlfriend, then the immediate jump is boyfriend and that would potentially land him in a strange amount of trouble.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Then what's there to worry about?" Scarab pulled him into a hug, which he was in too much muted shock to break out of. "So why not you give me a chance?"

Soap gaped like a fish. How in the literal fuck did this not work? He practically spelled that one out and she still somehow took his no as a yes.

Next thing he knew, Scarab started kissing him again. He didn't even know what to do at this point. He pulled away, and by some stroke of inhumane luck, Heatstroke just so happened to call out from the other room. He hoped, prayed to the Lord, Son, and Holy Spirit, that she didn't realize that his pulling away and Heatstroke calling for her was a complete coincidence.

Scarab didn't say a word as he quickly slipped back inside his and Ghost's room. MacTavish had every intention of returning to bed as if nothing happened, but the bed was empty.

"What was that?"

Welp.

\--- --- ---

Ghost didn't have any intention of spying on MacTavish. In fact, when the man got out of bed, he was pretty sure he was just going to smoke. He got up to join him. At the door though, he noticed Scarab on the balcony as well and them quietly talking.

And then quietly talking turned into a hug and a kiss.

To MacTavish's credit, he did try and explain himself. Ghost even wondered if he would finally step out of the closet. But no. Scarab misunderstood even more and he didn't fix it. In fact, he proceeded to further jam his own foot in his mouth.

They even kissed again!

At that point, Ghost wasn't sure if he should be upset. Clearly Scarab was denser than a fucking brick. In fact, he felt a little bad when MacTavish came stumbling back into the room, flustered as a confused teenager.

"What was that?"

MacTavish was ashen as he faced him. "Ghost, how long were you-"

"Oh I heard every word," Ghost answered. "So how do you plan on fixing this?"

"I don't know..." MacTavish admitted, sinking on the bed. "I was just trying to let her down easy..."

Ghost sat beside him and sighed. He really did forgive this idiot too easily sometimes. "You just have to be blunt. You'll hurt her less if you break things early than if she thinks there's something there."

"Yeah, you're right..." MacTavish agreed. "You're not mad?"

"No. Just disappointed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter of this insanity. I will say that this was a little difficult to make sense of. My kid brain back then literally had these guys stop at a hotel, get kidnapped for no particular reason (there was a ransom mentioned, but it's never brought up again), and then go back to the place they just got kidnapped from. No logic. It just happens. This literally goes nowhere. They do need to stop for the "Balcony Scene" (TM), but it was hard to justify the kidnappers. Ultimately, they became arms dealers and colleagues of Alexander's who are trying to bail him out via a hostage exchange, not realizing that the guy they want is dead. Because they aren't done here too, these guys dying further encourages more of their friends to chase the 141 to kingdom come.  
> The "Balcony Scene" (TM) was also a challenge as well since I'm rewriting this with the end goal being SoapXGhost. The issue is that the original way the conversation goes pushes some strange backstory on Soap where he has a dead girlfriend who was "killed by the Russians." It was so left field and played so little a role in the overall narrative that I scrapped that in favor of Soap having a problem with telling her no. Beyond a few changes to the dialogue where the dead girlfriend was removed, the two of them follow most of the same actions as the original version.  
> On a much less analytical note: I find it so funny that in the original version of chapter 3 (the first part with the kidnappers), Soap and Ghost are both literally sharing a room and are shirtless. Soap even note's Ghost's muscular chest and their exchange until Soap's captured reads like couple banter. Even though younger me was homophobic, I apparently still wrote these boys in a better relationship than what was supposed to be the intended ship.


	3. To Think or Not to Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 5 and 6
> 
> 5\. They leave hotel to go back to base. "Alex's friends" give chase. They crash, try to lose Alex in town. Scarab is separated, then found by Roach. Mild trouble. They rejoin the team. Jump in car, drive away.  
> 6\. Return to base. Base hijinx? New mission to Azerbaijan. Stealth assignment, just Soap and Scarab.

Last night sucked. A lot. Half the team got nabbed via a plan so stupid that it worked on principle and they all lost much needed sleep as a result. With the trucks refueled, they split up between the two vehicles and left the outpost at sunrise. The hope was that if they blended into regular traffic, they could avoid further trouble in case any more of these European arms dealers showed up to avenge their fellow sellers.

 _Did arms dealers have a union?_ Roach wondered, leaning back in his seat. He flicked his attention between the road in front of them and the side view mirror. They were driving behind Scarecrow and the others, and had only been on the move for about a half hour of the two hour drive. While Meat switched lanes, Roach glanced back and noted a car behind them (a nondescript white van) swap and maintain the same following distance it'd been keeping since they passed through the last town.

"Think we're being followed?" Roach asked finally. "That van's been behind us for a while now."

Scarab was about to glance back, but Ghost dropped a hand on her head and kept her facing forward. "If you look, they'll know we noticed." She nodded in response and nervously fretted with her gun.

"They might've noted our plates back in Berlin and been following us for a while if that's the case," MacTavish mentioned. "Meat, let's put them to the test. Take the next exit off the highway and we'll see what they do."

"Aye aye, Captain." Meat once again changed lanes, which that van did as well, and turned off as instructed.

No surprise, the van followed.

 _"Captain MacTavish, are things okay back there? We lost sight of you."_ Royce asked over the comms. He was co-piloting for Scarecrow in the other truck.

"We're possibly being followed and are detouring. Proceed to the nest as planned, but watch for anyone tailing," MacTavish responded.

They soon ended up in another town, and Meat took a series of turns down a bunch of one way streets and side roads. White Van was still behind them. "They're not very subtle, are they?" Meat remarked as he ran a red light that didn't seem to dissuade their pursuers, who also ran the red. A chorus of angry honking faded in the distance.

Roach watched the van intently through the mirror at this point. The passenger of the car rolled down his window and aimed a pistol out the window. "Meat! Swerve!"

Meat did as told and, almost as soon the car lurched right, the side mirror exploded into tiny pieces. "Fuck..." Another gunshot, punctuated by a resounding boom and whoosh of the front left tire popping, the shock wave of which reverberated through the floor of the car. Meat white knuckled the steering wheel as the truck immediately veered left. "Fuck! Hang on!"

They bumped up over the curb, rattling Roach in his seat before the truck slammed directly into a streetlamp. The seat belt barely kept him from face planting against the windshield as he and everyone else jerked forward from the impact. He hastily unbuckled, though the button really seemed to want to stick at that point, and ducked into the foot well. "Heads down!"

The cracked windshield shattered as another bullet tore through the rear window and the head rest of his seat. A second bullet followed and lodged into the brick wall. To his relief, there was no blood splatter.

Behind him, Ghost cursed, "Bollocks! We're sitting ducks in here, we need to leave!"

That was the real conundrum. So much as pick up your head and they'd cap you in an instant. There was no way to leave the car from the right side, since if they so much as opened the door, they'd be totally exposed. Being in the passenger seat though, Roach could slip out, in theory. "I'm going to see if I can't get a lock on them." He tugged the latch and shouldered the door open from the small space he was curled in, then dropped out with his rifle in tow.

Two of their pursuers had left the van and were approaching the truck at this point, the back doors were wide open too. Roach took out one of the two men, which caused the other to jump with alarm. This provided him crucial seconds to take him out.

He banged the side of the truck. "Go! Go!" He then sprayed bullets at the van, in hopes that the gunfire would keep them from breaking from cover. As the sides became pockmarked and the van tires blew, a mess of shouts flew from the car.

The others wasted no time in bailing from the crashed vehicle and booking it down the street. Roach unloaded a full magazine into that van before turning on his heels and sprinting after them. They'd dodged around a corner, but by the time Roach had reached it, he lost sight of everyone.

Hearing the angry shouts behind him, Roach wasted no time in choosing a narrow path between a couple apartment buildings and praying he could lose them. One turn, then several others, and he stopped to plant a hand on the wall and catch his breath. Being totally lost wasn't all that new to him, but unlike most other times, it wasn't like they had studied a map in advance. They weren't even supposed to be in this town.

Staying still for too long may just be a death sentence. With burning lungs, he pressed forward while forcing himself to breathe at a more steady pace. While he walked, he made attempt after attempt to get into contact with the others to no avail. Apparently his ear piece was damaged in the crash. He tried all the same. Before long, he ended up away from this complex alley network and near the road again, where he spotted Scarab passing by, somehow more aimless than he was.

She'd die if she stayed on the streets like that. Roach reached out and grabbed her to pull her into the alley with him, which prompted her to thrash and struggle. If she screamed, it could attract attention. He whispered, "Scarab, calm down!"

Immediately, her fighting stopped and she let herself be turned around. At this point, Roach more or less dragged her along behind a nearby dumpster so that they were out of sight from the road. She crouched beside him. "Roach, where the fuck is everyone else?"

"I don't know." Roach peaked around the corner of the dumpster. Not a soul to be seen. "I lost sight of them when we made a break for it."

"We have to find them. They couldn't have gotten too far on foot."

As much as he appreciated the optimism, he had to squash that notion. "This is the 141 we're talking about. They could've covered some distance."

Scarab sighed. "Point taken. Let's go." She then grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. Once again, they dove in the spiderweb of alleyways he'd just barely avoided getting lost in the first time.

Now, to be completely honest, technically Roach could have pulled rank and had her follow his lead. After all, he was a Sergeant and she was a Private 1st Class. It was clear she had no more clue where they were going than he did, but he didn't have much better a course of action to propose at the moment. During this time while they turned down one narrow path to the next, he continued to fiddle with his comm and pray he could luck out and get the damn thing working again.

This wasn't as easy as he hoped. Ghost made electronics work look so easy...

"Scarab, have you tried-" Before he could finish his question, the woman shushed him.

"I think I hear someone," she said. Without any other warning, she sprinted ahead and banked a corner. Roach, of course, followed.

He wasn't too good at this leader business.

The voice turned out to be one of the pursuers, donning a light jacket and his face covered in mostly beard. He'd managed to knock Scarab to the ground and had a gun pointed at her head. "Don't move."

Not good. Not fucking good. He pulled the trigger to shoot the guy, only to be answered with a click. He never reloaded from before. He didn't remember to do the most basic action known to gun handling.

Hurriedly, he scanned around for a corner to duck behind while he dealt with his weapon. Before he could get the next mag from his vest, this guy lead Scarab his way. She passed him without seeming to notice. Giving up on reloading, Roach tackled the guy and the two of them collided hard into the wall. As soon as Roach's head tapped back, his ear filled with a cacophony of static and voices. He grabbed the assailant and cracked his face against the wall. Fortunately, this knocked him out cold.

Roach finally finished reloading his gun and turned to Scarab. "Never do that again." Fortunately, she had the grace to be ashamed for the trouble she'd caused. With his comm miraculously working again, he tuned back to the correct frequency. "This is Roach. I'm with Scarab in some alleys a few blocks from the crash. Does anybody copy?"

 _"Copy loud and clear."_ It was Ghost. Thank goodness. _"Do you see the water tower?"_

Water tower? Roach peered around. Beyond the roof of one of the lower buildings, off to the South, he spied one such structure. "Roger. I see it."

_"Alright. Head towards that. There's a vacant business space we're hiding in not far from there. It's in eyesight of the tower."_

"On our way!" Roach lead Scarab off towards the water tower. From there, just as Ghost had said, there was a string of buildings, one with a sign in the window and the lights out. It seemed pretty vacant. He approached with the Private in tow. "Alright, we're here."

Ghost opened the door for them and they both slipped inside. As Ghost moved out of the way though, Roach noted that he stepped rather gingerly on one of his feet, not even fully planting the foot on the ground. While Scarab passed him, Roach quietly asked if he was alright, which only got him a curt nod.

In fact, Ghost planted a hand on Roach's shoulder and said for the others to hear, "You really saved our skins back there, Roach."

The Captain, who had been in some very quiet conversation with Meat up to this point, acknowledged this with "Aye. Good work." It wasn't that Captain MacTavish's or Ghost's praises were rare, but all the same, Roach found himself mute and bashful.

Scarab sat down on a storage bin, her gun rested in her lap. "I can't believe we got lost... But at least we didn't die."

"Odds are that'll change real quick. It won't take long for them to track us down," Ghost said.

"Yo, Scarecrow, what's your ETA?" Meat asked.

_"Five minutes. Traffic got diverted where you guys crashed. If you guys can meet us halfway, we can probably cut out of the town sooner and lose them on the freeway."_

Without delay, everyone filed out of the abandoned store to rendezvous with the second truck. As it turned out, they were only a block away, so once they met in the middle, the lot of them all piled into the truck bed and Scarecrow banged out of the town.

"Do you think we lost them?" Roach asked, very cautiously eyeing the cars behind them.

"Maybe," Soap replied, checking his gun, "but we can never be too careful."

No further trouble came, however. At this point, perhaps the rest of that circle of arms dealers decided it wasn't worth it and gave up the chase. Another hour and a half, and they reached the U.S. facility in Hamburg, and then were on a plane back to their own base in the U.K.

\--- --- ---

Upon returning to base, the team split up to either find people or catch a bit of rest. MacTavish, on the other hand, caught Ghost by the hand before he could make his getaway. "Let's get that ankle checked."

The lieutenant paused and nodded stiffly. "I was starting to wonder if you noticed."

"Of course I noticed," MacTavish replied, leading him to the infirmary. He didn't carry him or try to pull an arm over his shoulder to help take the weight off. Ghost probably would have yelled at him for being over dramatic about a tweaked ankle. Instead, he walked by his side, just in case he needed help. Ultimately, Ghost didn't. Even though he was limping, he tended to tough out most injuries he got.

When the medic on base took a look, he immediately took note of the broken nose. Doc clicked his tongue. "What the hell did you do to get yourself banged up like this?"

"Door to the face and then I tripped getting out of a car," the lieutenant answered in brief. "It's not that bad, is it?"

The driest, least amused expression MacTavish had ever seen crossed Doc's face as he tapped his pen on Ghost's knee. "Your ankle's swollen. You're lucky you got your boot off without any problems, but you've clearly been running and walking on the damn thing all day. And what the hell is that dismissive 'door to the face?' Did you experience any dizziness, nausea, headache?"

Admittedly, MacTavish found it a little funnier than it should have been watching Ghost flounder through those questions. On top of that, he was hit with a few tests. Ultimately Doc concluded that, yes, he did have a mild concussion and he should take 24 hours to rest before they reassess that. On top of the day to rest, when Ghost would get back to work, it would have to be lighter duties so that he could be easy on his ankle. Thinking that his work was done, MacTavish turned to leave when the medic called him out with a sharp, "Hey!"

MacTavish stopped at the door, escape attempt foiled. "Is there a problem, Doc?"

"Don't think you're sneaky, Captain, I saw those bruises on the back of your head the minute you came in. I know you know concussion symptoms at this point." The medic crossed his arms.

Meanwhile, Ghost was still sitting in the chair with a grin that reached his eyes. Cheeky bastard.

"Aye, I got hit a couple of times." MacTavish sighed and rubbed at the tender spot on the base of his skull. Truthfully, that headache still hadn't gone away and he felt mildly queasy off and on throughout the day. "Lemme guess, you want me to take a day too."

Doc nodded and ran a hand along his buzzed head. "I swear, of the ninety people I need to take care of here and all my years in Fort Sam, you two are by far the biggest hand-fulls I've ever met." After running the same tests, he confirmed that MacTavish would need to rest as well. He shooed the both of them out so he could deal with the necessary paperwork.

At the end of the day, the base would run fine without its Captain and Second in Command. Responsibilities fall on the next senior officer; specifically Lieutenant Jim "Royce" Labbe in this case. If there was anyone MacTavish trusted not to burn the base down, more than even himself sometimes, it was Royce.

There was no rule saying they couldn't spend that day resting together. Ghost made himself comfortable and MacTavish tucked himself in by his side. Before he knew it, the both of them managed to sleep the whole day away. Around noon the following day, they were up and about again. Much of that headache and nausea had settled down by then, with only a very dull ache remaining when the lights were a touch too bright. Doc cleared MacTavish for regular duty. Ghost could, as predicted, resume light work.

It didn't take all that long for General Shepherd to get in contact and relay that they had another mission in the works. Apparently, thanks to Roach's debrief, they were able to trace the crates from those arms dealers back to another in South America, and then again all the way to Russia. Apparently they disrupted a weapons smuggling train that, odds were, spanned through several countries. Each of them sported a painted on logo with AWR printed over a high caliber bullet. None too subtle, but supposing they never went through any conventional cargo checks, regular authorities would've never noticed.

There was a manifest collected at one point earlier that made much more sense. There was an Ultranationalist base in Azerbaijan where one of these weapon shipments was sent. They were potentially components to make SAM sites and long range missiles. Considering the slippery situation in Afghanistan, it was possible that base was just another stopping point before said cargo reached its destination.

"We can, in theory, cut off the supply run there and make the fight much easier," General Shepherd said over the call. "I want you and one other person to sneak in that base and blow the weapons cache. If you can, find any documentation on where the shipment was headed. Any questions?"

"No, sir, but I do have a suggestion," MacTavish mentioned. "As you know, we had an informant codenamed 'Nikolai' in the Ultranationalist ranks five years ago."

There was a brief silence. "I think I recall reading about him in passing. He supplied the intel on the ship in the Bering Strait?"

"Aye. Since then, he's been coordinating with other splintered Loyalist factions to infiltrate Ultranationalist ranks and continue to feed intel on their movements. With the New Russian President's cleaning house to make the party more appealing, they've had an easier time staying under the radar."

"Where are you going with this, MacTavish?" Shepherd asked tiredly.

"Last time Nikolai's reported in, he was heading into Azerbaijan. He might be able to get us in quietly," MacTavish told him. "If things kick South, it could blow his cover, but there are at least fifty others spying as well. It's an option."

"If he can assist, then by all means. We'll offer him sanctuary if this puts him in any danger."

With nothing else to add, the call ended. MacTavish was then left to ponder who he'd take on this assignment. His first thought was Ghost, but he had to dismiss the notion. Ghost was restricted to light duty on account of his ankle, and that probably wasn't going to change in the next few days. Missions were definitely out of the question. The more time he could give him to recover, the better.

All things considered, MacTavish on his own was a demolition specialist. He also knew enough Russian to get by at this point. If anyone was coming with him, it was purely so he could have backup. After much pondering, he decided that the mission was pretty standard as far as covert operations go. It'd be good experience.

As it turned out, following that train of logic, the one with the least amount of field experience was actually Scarab. She'd had limited assignments up to this point, but highly impressive PFT and ASVAB scores, which landed her in the Task Force. In a less... professional sense, this could also be a good chance for him to clear the air with her where that huge misunderstanding was concerned.

Of course, when he told Ghost as much while bringing up the mission and who he'd chosen as back up, the lieutenant flinched away like he'd been slapped.

"You're choosing _her_?" He exclaimed. "Don't we normally handle these sorts of assignments together?"

"Yes, but you need to take it easy, remember?" MacTavish shot back. "Like I said, it's a good chance to give her field experience."

Ghost glowered him. "There's eighty-nine operators on this base, you could've picked anybody. Why does it have to be her?"

"I already explained myself. Why are you so twisted up over this anyways?"

"Why? I shouldn't have to spell it out. She's been hitting on you, and odds are she still will be on this mission. I let the whole snuggling in the car and the kiss slide, but this is getting stupid. When are you going to tell her no?"

Jealous Ghost had been an amusing discovery, but at this point, MacTavish was losing patience for it. He combed his hand through his mohawk and heaved a heavy sigh. "I'll talk to her, but this mission and that situation are completely unrelated."

"Do you think she'll see it that way? No." Ghost crossed his arms. "You're so focused on her feelings that you're not thinking about mine."

"I didn't think-"

"That's right, you don't think! You're being fucking stupid!" Ghost snapped. As those words left his lips, the room turned silent, cold. Much of the anger fled from Ghost's face, replaced with remorse. "John, I..." The words were stuck in his throat.

At that point, he'd said it though, and it was something one apology couldn't totally fix. MacTavish turned away. "I'm going to tell Scarab about the mission."

\--- --- ---

After MacTavish left, Ghost sat down on his bed and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. It wasn't like he never called MacTavish stupid before, but it had always been an affectionate prodding in the past for little, trivial mistakes. He never screamed it at him before, and the minute he did, he wanted to jam his tongue back into his windpipe.

He crossed a line.

He crossed several lines, actually.

Here he was, getting angry and showing no faith in the man. MacTavish said himself he would fix it. He needed to give him the chance to, right? Wasn't he supposed to trust the man to do the right thing?

Besides, it wasn't as if MacTavish's reasoning wasn't without merit. As a subordinate, Ghost had no right to question his decisions as Captain of this company.

Tugging on his mask (no way in hell was he showing his face after that display of his), he shuffled to the gym to watch some of the other men working out. Maybe he could get some crunches in and try to take his mind off the whole thing. Hopefully, he'd have the chance to apologize later.

In the little workout room though, he happened upon Scarab. Surprise surprise. She was practicing kick boxing while Heatstroke held up the pads for her to kick. Without exactly meaning to, Ghost ended up watching her reps for a short time. To her credit, she had excellent form and an impressive high kick. Her gym clothes did also place her lean, defined body on display. She must've trained for years to get like that.

As much as Ghost wanted to roll his eyes and pretend she wasn't all that and a bag of crisps, he couldn't quite stoop himself to that level of blindness. Still, he liked to think that if he wasn't nursing a sprained ankle, then he could take her in a spar.

The real blow was when she pulled a standing split while stretching afterwards. He wasn't that flexible. He wasn't sure if most the men on base were remotely that flexible. Were legs even supposed to spread like that? His hips hurt just watching it.

By the time she and Heatstroke had finished their respective workouts, Ghost realized he'd been sitting and stretching one leg through most of it. His knee gave a noisy pop as he bent said leg and stood up.

Maybe he was being just a tad too petty...

... Nah, Scarab needed to stop trying to kiss his boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was subject to some fun changes. For one, I expanded on the car chase, since it was originally a couple paragraphs long and kinda glossed over. Instead of Scarab's POV, we get Roach. The mission's gonna be messy, to put it lightly.  
> Hell, I preemptively dropped a few lines towards establishing what the frick Nikolai is doing there when he pops up seemingly out of nowhere to save Soap's ass in Plan B. I figure the Loyalists need something to do before they come back and become "important."


	4. Kicking it with the Boys out East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 7, 8, and 9
> 
> 7\. Fly to mission. Scarab gets caught in a tree. Dog encounter. They sleep in the church tower.  
> 8\. Wake up. They enter a building, get caught. Soap is captured. Nikolai dicks with him as an interrogator before relaying the new plan.  
> 9\. Scarab trying to save Soap's ass. Nikolai busts Soap out. Scarab is caught, gets in a weight fight. Gets stabbed. Nikolai plants C4 while they escape to the helicopter. Soap tends to Scarab's stab. Nikolai blows the shit up, and flies them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see dialogue inside [ ], then all that means is that it's not in English. I'm not dancing the Google Translate Tango for this. This also applies for all future chapters.

"So Captain, this is your second trip to Azerbaijan?" Hurricane asked from the cockpit.

MacTavish pulled himself from a convoluted train of thought that mainly centered on his current predicament, and looked to the backs of the pilot seats. "Aye, the SAS were sent to collect Al-Asad for interrogation."

For a majority of this time, Scarab had been quiet. It wasn't like Ghost, who simply would rather sit back and relax during a long helicopter ride. She just didn't seem willing to chime in unless other people were talking. So, once there was a hint of a conversation started, she asked next, "How did that work out?"

"Messy. We were in some tiny town, had to fight up hill to find him and hold that position for extraction, only to get told that the LZ had to change to the bottom of the hill where we started." Such a painful assignment. Not to mention Mac... He never made it home and his family never heard the real story. On bad nights, MacTavish sometimes woke in a cold sweat with those last, pained words he'd said over the comms ringing in his ears. He continued, "Al-Asad never left there alive either, my Captain at the time made sure of that."

The topic died after that. They still had time before they reached their destination, so MacTavish thought it best to review the mission details with Scarab before they got there. While they could sneak into the base properly, blow up the weapons cache and steal the shipment manifest, they had a back up plan in case one or both of them got captured. Nikolai would be able to let them loose so they could keep going.

She didn't ask any questions, so he assumed she understood it.

They reached the Drop Zone. While MacTavish landed just fine, Scarab must have listed off course slightly because she wound up stuck in a tree. He regarded her with amusement as she tugged and yanked on the emergency release, but to no avail. "Looks like you're in a snag, eh?"

Scarab huffed. "Yeah..." She pulled out her tactical knife and cut at the strings, finally landing on the ground, where she wrestled off the parachute harness. Together they pulled the chute out of the tree and tucked it out of sight. Landing gear concealed, they went on with their mission.

The first objective was to get into the base. The shipment should be in one of the warehouses.

_"Bravo 6, this is Venom 1-2, there may be potential thunderstorms and crosswinds that'll be kicking up over the next several hours. We're going to land in Zone Charlie until it passes. If the storm's still going on by the time you need extraction, we'll be delayed in reaching you."_

"Copy that."

The base was four klicks out from the DZ. Roughly 500 meters up a dirt slope was a road, and if they followed that, it would take them straight to said base. Since it was 23:00, there was less activity. Only two cars passed, and they were easy enough to spot and hide from by virtue of their headlights. By no means would this be a challenge for either of them.

About ten minutes into marching, the first droplets of rain fell. With a fitful rumble, the rain immediately picked up from a faint drizzle to a downpour. Another truck approached with its high beams like fog lamps in the heavy rain.

MacTavish pushed Scarab sideways off the road and into the underbrush so the car could pass. As the revving engine faded out along with the red glow of the tail lights, he sighed. His uniform was already soaked through... "Are we having fun yet?"

Having been pushed down to the ground, Scarab propped herself up to reveal her whole front (chest, neck, and chin) covered in mud. "Oodles..."

"Let's go-" MacTavish froze as he heard a very familiar sound just behind Scarab. The low reverb of an attack dog growling. In the dark and rain, he made out the jet black shape of a german shepherd behind her. It's head low and ears pinned as it bore stark white teeth. Scarab peeked back over her shoulder and also gave pause. MacTavish spoke as quietly as he could. "Don't move. The moment we try and run, it'll lunge at us. We'll back up, nice and easy."

If it was a military dog, why hadn't it attacked them?

Actually it hadn't barked either to alert anyone.

Difficult as it was to see, he saw no indication of a collar or a harness on this dog. While he'd seen attack dogs without them before, they were almost never far from their handler. Between that and it not doing more than growl at them, it didn't seem unlikely that this was a stray.

"I have an idea," Scarab whispered and reached into one of her pouches. From it, she produced a pack of peanut butter crackers. The wrapper crinkled noisily as she tore it open and set a couple on the ground between them and this dog. "Okay, back up. Maybe it'll leave us alone if it's got a treat."

MacTavish nodded, at a loss for words. This pooch definitely wasn't a military dog. That much was clear as it stopped growling at them and curiously sniffed the crackers before eating them. The Captain wasted no time in scooting away from the dog, back on the cracked pavement, and got to his feet. "Jesus fucking Christ..." The dog continued to snack away, tail low and ears still back. It definitely seemed more comfortable now that there was a little distance between them and it.

The feeling was mutual.

Scarab left the last of the crackers on the ground for it and got up. "I take it your not a fan of dogs, Captain?"

"Not for a long time, no," MacTavish answered, stepping back to place a little more distance between them. "Let's go, we've still got the mission."

Nodding in agreement, Scarab followed behind him as they continued on their way to the base. As they walked though, said dog tailed them now too. Scarab probably smelled like peanut butter, if he had to take a guess. It didn't want to bite them. Actually, it seemed more curious than anything.

Now that he was able to get a better look at it, he couldn't help noticing that the dog wasn't neutered either. Odds were it was a stray. Friendly, but a stray nonetheless. After a little ways, Scarab had stopped again to let the dog sniff her hand and even managed to get it comfortable enough for her to pet it on the side. MacTavish pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I don't think we'll be able to take that dog home with us."

Scarab glanced up at him with sad eyes. Was she a dog now? What the hell was this? "But he's such a friendly boy."

"That thing'll blow our cover if we try to take it with us in the base. Sorry, but we have to leave it." MacTavish frowned and added firmly, "Just shoo it off."

He didn't know if he would've rather been bit by the damn thing and risked rabies over this. At least it wouldn't be a problem. Scarab nudged the dog away and shooed it off. This only made it keep a marginal distance though...

At this point, MacTavish just hoped that when they reached the base, this dog would be spooked off by all the people and commotion. It seemed skittish enough.

The base was lit with floodlights, making it stand out starkly in all the rain. A patrol rounded the perimeter every couple of minutes. Fortunately, this seemed like enough activity to spook the dog away, as it gave a few startled barks and ran off.

Of course, those startled barks drew attention directly on them.

MacTavish instinctively shoved Scarab out of sight, but it was too late for him. The patrol surrounded him and shouted to drop his weapons. He made eye contact with Scarab, who peaked from behind a tree, pleading for her to stay hidden. She bit her lip and slipped out of sight.

Complying with the guards, he set his rifle down and raised his hands. One of the guards grabbed his wrists and cuffed them in front of him. At least he didn't need to be concussed this time.

At least he had a fallback plan this time.

They marched him into the base, and to a small room where they stripped him of his communicator, side arms, and other equipment. Being soaked through, he left a puddle around the chair they pushed him in. In front of him was a plain white table and another empty seat. No signs of any cameras or microphones, as far as he could see. He slid his hand along the underside of the table, but felt no indication of any devices either.

The door opened and MacTavish nearly choked on his tongue when he immediately recognized the man who stepped in as Nikolai. He schooled his features to total neutrality. There couldn't be any indication anything was up.

"[If it isn't one of the Western Special Forces,]" Nikolai said in Russian. He immediately swapped to English. "We have been expecting you after the trouble in Germany."

MacTavish glanced to the little window on the side wall. A pair of men were observing their exchange. He spoke carefully. "Is that right?"

"[Yes.] Now, if you would cooperate, we can answer a lot of questions pain free." Nikolai took the opposite seat and steepled his fingers. "Tell me, [friend], what was your objective here?"

Nikolai or not, he couldn't answer that question. Not with observers. MacTavish stayed quiet and turned his gaze down to the table. The only sound was a steady dripping of water off his metal chair.

"We captured only you. Surely there were others. Where were they?" Nikolai prodded.

"I can't answer that."

"You can't, or you won't?"

"..."

"I am giving you a chance to make this painless for you," Nikolai asserted. "I strongly suggest you cooperate."

It was at that time that MacTavish felt a tap to the toe of his boot. A steady pattern that he quickly realized was Morse code. It was too quiet to hear, and with the table so close to the window, there was little chance that the two guards observing were aware of this covert game of footsie.

_"K-e-e-p q-u-i-e-t. W-i-l-l u-n-l-o-c-k y-o-u a-t m-i-d-n-i-g-h-t."_

The tapping stopped. MacTavish acted nonplussed, twiddling his thumbs and keeping his head low. "I can't answer your questions." As he pulled this act though, he tapped back on Nikolai's shoe.

_"L-e-f-t o-n-e m-a-n. S-h-e m-a-y s-t-i-l-l p-r-o-c-e-e-d w o-b-j."_

Nikolai's foot withdrew as he stood up. "Then I will need to prepare my tools. Sorry it needs to be this way, [friend.]" With that, he left.

If MacTavish had to guess what time it was by the time that line of questioning was up, it was probably 23:50. He sat, cool as could be given his circumstances. The two guards at the window left in a hurry, oddly enough. Outside in the hall, there was a lot of frantic Russian chatter that he couldn't quite make out through the door.

The door flew open, revealing Nikolai with a ring of keys and a box of equipment under his arm. He dropped the box on the table and went straight to unlocking the handcuffs. "We may have a problem, my friend. An intruder was spotted in one of the hangars. All available personnel were called to assist."

All available personnel? To capture one person? Specifically Scarab? What kind of hell was that woman raising in those ten minutes? MacTavish threw back on all the harnesses and gear in the box, then picked up his gun from the bottom of the box. "That's not good. Any idea what kind of trouble she's in?"

"None. The alert was to Hangar 2, where the weapon shipment was being stored." Nikolai equipped a P90 and led the way to the hangar. They were on the second floor, and ended up on a catwalk that overlooked the hangar.

Down by the large stacks of shipment crates, MacTavish spotted Scarab with a large number of enemies surrounding her. One shouted, "Drop your weapon!"

Nikolai did a double take. "Soap, you never mentioned this other man was a woman."

"Pretty sure I said 'she.'" MacTavish aimed his gun. Only then did he notice the soft blinking red lights from armed C4 on a number of the crates. Seemed she was carrying on with the mission and actually managed to plant the explosives. Good thing bullets wouldn't trigger them. That was less the issue and more the fact that there was no good way to thin out the ring of guards without one or more of them shooting her on sight and then turning on them. And if they kill her, they also have the detonator. "This is a fine mess she's gotten herself in though."

Scarab set her ACR down on the floor and raised her hands. One of the guards approached with handcuffs, and got the cuff around one wrist when she uppercut the poor bastard's jaw. His head snapped back and he went down like a fallen tree.

She flipped out her pistol and shot down the first few guards who raised their guns at her, then spun on her heels and kicked another guy in the neck, sending him stumbling. MacTavish and Nikolai gawked for a couple of seconds before firing at the other guards to cover her while she fought off the ones with her pistol and some impressive amount of martial arts prowess. She struck one man in the side of the leg, knocking him off balance so she could smack him with the handle of her pistol. When another guard came at her next, she spun on a dime and roundhouse kicked this poor sod in the face. She moved so fast that the guards who did fire at her couldn't actually get a hit.

Just when it seemed all clear, one guard leaped out from behind the stack of crates, a knife in hand. She took a cut to the ribs, but immediately caught his arm and broke his wrist over her knee. The scream that came from the man was absolutely brutal. She capped him with her pistol and picked up her rifle. Glancing their way, she asked, "You alright, Captain?"

Was he alright? As MacTavish and Nikolai ran down the metal stairs to get to her, he took in her sopping wet and mud covered clothes. The cut on her side let out a steady gush of blood that was mixing with the watery puddle at her feet. She was a mess and asking if _he_ was alright? "I'm fine. We've got to leave before the rest of the base comes around."

"Wait, what about the manifest?" She asked.

Nikolai pulled a folded bunch of papers from his coat pocket. "Got it."

He was glad someone remembered, because given all the commotion, he wouldn't have thought twice about it until they were clear out of the base. "Then there's no need to stay. Out the door, move!"

The three of them ran out of the hangar, back into the storm. It hadn't let up any and made it nearly impossible to hear each other without the aid of their comms. They ducked behind jeeps and kept out of sight of the Ultranationalists headed towards the hangar to provide back up a tad too late. They sprinted out of the base before a proper search could be made for them and made for the treeline, where they couldn't be followed by any vehicles.

"Detonate the C4!" MacTavish ordered. They had definitely cleared the blast radius by now. Scarab fumbled out the detonator and clicked down the button. Behind them, the thunderous explosion sent up a mess of flaming debris and a pillar of fire they could see between the trees. There were probably a mess of grenades and other explosives in that weapons cache that went off with the C4. It was a pretty satisfying boom.

Scarab dropped the detonator and leaned against a tree, holding her ribs. "That was almost crazy bad..."

"Yeah. Once we get on the helicopter, we should be able to take a look at your side," MacTavish said. He then tried to radio in Venom 1-2 for evac.

The response he received was less than helpful. _"Negative, Bravo 6. The tail rotor was damaged in the wind while we were flying. We don't stand a chance in this storm until its fixed. Recommend you find somewhere safe to sit tight."_

MacTavish groaned. Just his luck.

"They mentioned that after you got caught..." Scarab mentioned.

"Any chance that you happen to have a helicopter stored somewhere nearby?" MacTavish asked Nikolai with the faintest, fleeting glimmer of hope that they wouldn't be stuck out here.

Nikolai shook his head. "I was undercover, and I do not trust our chances going back to the base to commandeer a plane."

It was a long shot.

"Then I guess we'll need to find a place to hole up," MacTavish conceded.

His friend nodded. "If we find the road, we could follow it to the next town. It's about six kilometers, if I am not mistaken."

Almost an hour of walking... It wasn't ideal, but it was better than standing in this is monsoon with their thumbs up their asses. Before they left, MacTavish did a very quick patch job on Scarab's ribs, but the bandage probably wouldn't hold between all the blood and rain. Scarab swore up and down that she'd be fine and able to keep up.

To her credit, she definitely did. Despite having the scramble through uneven forest terrain for a bit before they could reach the road, and the fast jog that was set after the fact, she kept pace remarkably well. While they hustled along, he stayed close to better keep an eye on her. She was breathing a bit rapidly, but seemed fine otherwise. Occasionally, he talked to her, if only to make sure she was still cognizant.

"I knew you had some high PFT scores, but that was some impressive fighting back there."

Scarab swallowed and puffed a couple breaths before replying, "Thanks."

"Was it Muay Thai?"

"Not exactly. It's kickboxing though."

When they reached this town Nikolai mentioned, it looked like about half of it was deserted and parts were utilized as some sort of checkpoint before people drove towards the base. There were a few small patrols, but nothing too difficult to dispatch. They entered one of the empty buildings and set up a small space in a second floor room. While the rain continued to pour outside, MacTavish got Scarab to sit still while he properly addressed the cut with what basic first aid skills he had.

Scarab stripped off the upper portion of her uniform down to a plain black sports bra. The cut itself was a few inches below her breast and wasn't particularly deep, but the knife must've opened something because it was bleeding pretty consistently and was about as long as his hand. The little trauma kits that are issued only go so far, with a small collection of gauze pads, a pressure bandage, and sterile gloves. It'd be enough to hold things shut until they could get a medic to properly stitch the thing shut.

Once he had it cleaned and dressed, he sat back on his heels and assessed his handiwork. He had to loop the pressure bandage around her torso. It'd restrict her breathing somewhat. "It's not too tight?"

She shook her head and tenderly tapped at the dressing, cringing as she did. "No. Thanks."

Outside, lightning flashed and lit up the dark room. There was no telling when the storm would let up. The rain and wind only seemed to pick up. It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho boy. Where to even begin with this one? In the original version, there was not one, not two, but FIVE unnecessary flashbacks that padded the narrative. They included relevant details such as:  
> -Soap had a dog as a kid who died apparently.  
> -Literally the last five minutes of MW, specifically that Loyalist giving Price CPR.  
> -Christmas time with the MacTavishes.  
> -Halloween with the MacTavishes.  
> -MacTavish's older brother falling off his bike and skinning his knee.  
> As quality as that content was, I needed to cut it. For time purposes. Yes...


	5. Cracking a Cold One with the Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 10, 11, and 12a
> 
> 10\. Getaway subverted. They camp.  
> 11\. Wake up. They get to the extraction point. Scarab trips almost off the cliff. They leave.  
> 12a. Pneumonia. At base, there's drama.

"A long night" only scratched the surface as far as this experience was concerned. The actual thunderstorm only lasted about an hour, but the wind and rain kept up for a long while after. All three of them were wet (Nikolai a little less, as his jacket was more waterproofed). The best that could be done was strip off the sopping wet uniforms, wring them out and set them to dry. They did a little searching of the house, and found a closet with a space heater and a couple musty blankets. It was about the best they could do at the moment.

MacTavish wasn't personally cold. The room was hovering at a little cooler than room temperature, but that was comfortable to him. Ghost always said he must just run a little warmer than everybody else. Of course, Nikolai seemed fine as well, but also still had some dry clothing and more time to adjust to the area.

If anyone was having trouble, it was Scarab. The woman was shivering, despite her clear efforts not to. Considering she was in wet trousers and a wet bra, he couldn't exactly blame her. She'd tried to squeeze the water out of her pants, but there's only so much you can do without taking them off. She was also still wearing that knit cap of hers and that also had to be soaked along with her hair.

In some pitiful way, she resembled a drenched kitten.

MacTavish brought one of the blankets and draped it over her shoulders. "Did you want to move closer to the heater?"

"I'm fine," she claimed. This was immediately followed by a high pitched sneeze.

... Definitely a kitten.

Was that a weird comparison? MacTavish decided it best not to dwell on it and sat down beside her. Across the room, Nikolai had made himself comfortable and dozed off, so they were effectively alone. Maybe now was his best chance to set the record straight with her. "Scarab, there's something I need to tell you..."

She lifted her chin and regarded him curiously. "You do?"

He didn't share her feelings. That was all he needed to say. "I want you to understand, I appreciate you as a good soldier. You've done well this mission, and I'm glad to see it. But I can't reciprocate your feelings."

"Why not?"

Was she really going to make him list the reasons? Shouldn't the simple fact he couldn't be enough? "Well, for starters, I'm your commanding officer. If word got out, it'd spell trouble for the both of us." It was a flimsy excuse for him; extraordinarily weak, considering he was with Ghost and a few of their teammates knew that already.

"Ooh, so you're worried about both our careers." Scarab smiled broadly and winked. "Don't worry, Captain, I can keep a secret."

...

Apparently Scarab liked the forbidden romance narrative. Why didn't he see this coming? She had to have known the rules before she pursued him. Regulations weren't enough to stop her, which meant that he needed to dig deeper. "That's um... Nice..."

Scarab crossed her arms around her knees. "It's that person you care about, isn't it? You're scared you'll disappoint them."

More like he already did. MacTavish turned his attention to his boots. It seemed he wasn't being nearly as subtle as he wanted. Either that, or Scarab was more observant than he realized. "Yeah, I am."

"If they make you feel so insecure, then maybe you should care a little less about what they think," Scarab suggested. "At least, that's my opinion."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"I guess you could say that. My stepmom held me to a pretty high standard, especially after my dad and brother died. I cared too much about making things work and I almost didn't join the military because of it."

Her dad and brother both died? MacTavish mentally pulled up what he remembered of her file. It had been months since he'd last seen it, shortly after she joined the Task Force 141. It did list her biological parents and brother as deceased. The stepmother might be the only one in the picture for her. "That must've been rough."

"It was. But I'm here now." Scarab reached out and took his arm. "And you're here too."

His pulled his arm away. His stomach turned end over end with guilt. He couldn't just cut Ghost out of his life. They'd been together through thick and thin for the last four years. Ghost walked him out of a couple of the darkest chapters of his life, changed it in little, meaningful ways. He liked to think he was good for him too. The Lt. Riley who joined the 141 was bitter and closed off until MacTavish got to him. He dedicated so much love and energy into all the time he spent with him.

The argument he had with Ghost reared its ugly head in the back of his mind. Being called stupid did hurt. He never complained about the times it was said as a joke, but he couldn't think of a time when the word didn't sting. What's more, the lack of trust was painful. Maybe, in some way, Scarab had a point. Weren't these red flags?

In that moment, he pondered Scarab in a different light. Sure, she was awkward, a tad ditsy at times, but she seemed nice. She could be assertive when she wanted to be too. Right now, her words resonated with the bitter part of him lingering on the unresolved fight. Ghost hadn't apologized. He had a day to spit it out before they left on this assignment, and at no time did he stop him to say it.

In fact, Ghost made a point of avoiding him all that day. Why? What was he still hung up on that he couldn't apologize for it? When they settled down that night, they didn't utter a word between each other. They kept their backs to the other, and were practically on the edges of that single.

"We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to," she said.

"I guess not." MacTavish looked to her and took in every detail. Although he'd already known it, Scarab was a very pretty woman. Her eyes were warm honey brown, and she had a fair amount of developed muscle tone. He hadn't paid so much attention to it before, but those abs were damn nice too. "So, do you work out often?"

Scarab giggled and scratched her ear. "Yeah, I've got a routine laid out for that. It's all pretty standard, except I have a day dedicated to kickboxing practice and I try and get about fifteen minutes of yoga in beforehand."

"Yoga, huh? I get doing a few stretches so you don't pull something, but you go that far?" MacTavish asked.

"Yup. It helps with flexibility. Otherwise, I don't think I'd be able to do those high kicks." She nudged his shoulder. "Who knows, Captain, maybe I can teach you a few positions to help loosen you up."

The two looked at each other, and MacTavish swore her face was tinged red. The next minute, they were laughing. He nudged her back. "Aye. Lord knows I could use it."

"Give me a month. I'll have you doing splits in no time."

Ghost would definitely enjoy it, that was for sure.

... Ghost wouldn't enjoy this...

MacTavish sighed, and contemplated his next step forward with upmost care. Surely he could spare Scarab's feelings, find a way to let her down easy, and still make Ghost happy, right? There had to be a middle ground. Something he could do or say that could fix the mess he made for himself. "Scarab, I-"

Suddenly, her lips were on his, and much like before he didn't know what to do. Despite his better judgement, he didn't want to pull away. So instead, he engaged her further, wrapping a hand behind her neck and drawing her in close.

He didn't have a chance to contemplate how she kissed back on the balcony, but this time he found himself comparing. Her lips were a different shape than Ghost's; her top and lower lips were roughly the same thickness, whereas Ghost's upper lip was notably thinner. Within a few minutes, she swiped her tongue along his mouth. He'd been so used to Ghost's nipping that this caught him by surprise. None of it was bad, not as she melted into his chest, just _different_.

When they finally broke apart, MacTavish was speechless. As reality kicked back into gear, he glanced at the window. It'd be his luck that Ghost would somehow be here, hundreds of thousands of kilometers away from base, just to hang outside like goddamn Spiderman and spy on them. There was no sign of him.

Scarab leaned against his arm. "Sorry, you don't mind if I sleep here, right? You're really warm..."

"I don't mind," he replied. Without any sort of real mental input, his arm looped itself around her.

It didn't take long for Scarab to fall asleep, and soon he was left to his chaotic maelstrom of thoughts. As much as he wanted to be mad at Ghost, as much as he wanted to pretend this was a simple jealousy game, he couldn't justify this. He kissed her back, and in doing so validated Ghost's lack of faith.

He deserved better than him.

That singular conclusion settled like a rock in his gut. The thought of Ghost with anybody else was more painful than anything. There had to be a way to fix this. Something.

If he kept this to himself, maybe this would blow over. Tomorrow he'd break things off with Scarab. He'd let her off easy somehow.

\--- --- ---

The rain stopped around dawn, and the sun broke through the dark clouds at the horizon. At about 03:00, Nikolai woke up and took the next watch shift so MacTavish could sleep. What sleep the Captain got wasn't restful though. He'd spent a long while contemplating how he could tell Scarab once and for all that he couldn't be with her.

To his credit, he came up with a plan, but the moment he nudged Scarab to wake her up, he noticed an unhealthy amount of heat radiating off of her. Despite her having slept the longest, she was pale, and her eyes dull and dark. "... It's morning...?" she croaked.

"Aye, rise and shine." MacTavish pulled on his partially dry uniform. The damp spots were warm from being near the space heater for hours on end. They clung to his skin with every movement. "The helicopter's coming to pick us up in an hour at the secondary extraction point, so get yourself sorted."

She nodded and took her uniform. Each move she made was slow, dragging. Once her uniform was on, she sniffled and coughed.

"Sounds like you caught a wee cold," MacTavish noted.

Scarab gave him a dead stare and echoed, "A wee cold."

"That's what I said."

She didn't respond further and instead finished pulling her jacket on over her shoulders. A shiver rippled up her back, and she visibly clenched her jaw. "How far away's the extraction point from here?"

"Three kilometers. Not far." MacTavish got on the rest of his gear and picked his gun up off the floor. Despite the small distance, Scarab looked as if she were asked to run a marathon. He nudged her shoulder. "You can rest when we get on the chopper."

They needed to double back towards the base, since the extraction point wasn't far from the Drop Zone. Much of it was uphill and most of the entire way, Scarab was audibly short on breath. Every so often, she slowed and coughed, but brushed off any question or concern he and Nikolai raised. By the time they reached the zone, an empty field, every breath she took had a faint, crackling undertone.

Once more, MacTavish tried to address the apparent problem. "Scarab, how're you holding up?"

"I'm fine..." She turned to face him, but visibly swayed. He caught her shoulder to steady her. She definitely wasn't fine. His attention turned down to her side. The wound could have gotten infected, or she could have caught something after being out in the rain and cold for so long. There was no telling-

From the distance, came a sharp bark. MacTavish stiffly looked back to see that same _god damn_ dog from before running their way. Before he could impulsively draw his sidearm, Scarab took his hand in hers and stopped him.

"He's not going to tackle you," she said and crouched down. The dog slowed to a trot and approached her.

Nikolai stepped in beside MacTavish. "Is that the stray that has been getting into the trash bins?"

"We found it last night." MacTavish watched Scarab get out another pack of peanut butter crackers (how many freaking packs of those did she bring?) and feed the dog. "I think she wants to bring it back to base, but there's no way that'll happen."

Nikolai raised a brow at him. "Is that so? I could take it back to the Loyalist safe house. Kamarov would be fine with it." With that, the Russian approached Scarab and the dog. The stray scampered back as he came close, but with a little bit of coaxing it warmed up to the new face quickly.

"The poor thing's covered in ticks," Scarab noted, gently checking under its ears.

"It will need a very thorough cleaning."

At least the dog wasn't staying in R.A.F. Brook Line. MacTavish had to keep telling himself that as the helicopter picked them up and Nikolai coaxed the animal in with them. He sat a generous distance away while the others got better acquainted with it.

The co-pilot regarded them with confusion, "You're bringing a dog back?"

"It's not staying," MacTavish responded.

There was no relaxing most of that helicopter ride. For the first half, it was due to his fear of dogs. At some point half way through, Scarab took a turn for the worse. She rested her head in her hands and stayed like that a long while.

MacTavish scooted closer. "You alright, Scarab?"

"Yeah, just a headache." She didn't move. "I think I'll get a little rest..."

He touched the back of her neck and noted the heat radiating off her. "Go straight to the infirmary when we get back, okay?"

Scarab hummed faintly. It was probably a yes, but she then immediately followed it with leaning herself against his arm. It didn't take all that long for her to doze off. She didn't stir for the rest of the helicopter ride back, and it was difficult to rouse her when they finally landed. When she did wake up, she got up and immediately fell to a knee. "Just... just give me a minute..."

At this point, he'd seen enough. MacTavish pulled her up to her feet and knelt down in front of her. "Hop on."

"Captain...?"

"I can carry you there, you're clearly having trouble walking," he explained. This apparently was enough for Scarab, as she climbed on his back and he walked off the pave-low with Nikolai at his side and the dog at their heels.

And the first person that he should run into in? As his luck would have it, of course that was Ghost. Though difficult to make out, the lieutenant's brows furrowed behind his sunglasses. "What happened to her?"

It should have been a straightforward answer. As far as him carrying her went, this was innocent. Despite that, his brain made a detour back to the kiss the night before. Cotton mouthed, he answered, "She's sick and might have an infected wound. I'm taking her to Doc."

"That right? I'll come along." Ghost fell in step beside him as they walked off the landing zone towards the main building. "Must've been a tough run."

"Not really. We would've been back sooner if winds didn't mess with the tail rotor." MacTavish shifted Scarab's weight so that he could get a better grip on her legs. She loosened her arms around his neck. "She did pretty well, all things considered."

"Thanks, Captain," she mumbled.

Ghost side eyed her, but didn't comment. Instead, he changed gears. "Right. Once Doc's able to look at her, I think we've got some things to go over."

MacTavish glanced at him, but there was a lack of tension in his posture or any telltale signs of a problem. There was no way Ghost could know about that kiss. Zero. So why did he feel this dread deadening his joints?

"'Course. Did you want to discuss it in my office?"

"That should be fine," Ghost agreed.

They almost never spoke about work privately. The security of closed doors was usually reserved for personal conversations. Unless something classified came up that none of the men could hear, which he supposed wasn't an impossibility, he had every reason to assume it had something to do with their recent dispute.

At the infirmary, MacTavish dropped Scarab off and left her in Doc's capable hands with a friendly "Feel better" then left with Ghost. They diverted straight to his office. As soon as he shut the door behind them, the lieutenant took his hand.

Oh no... He only ever turned to hand holding if it was serious...

"Ghost?" MacTavish's voice was edged with nervousness.

"Listen, about what I said before, I'm sorry." With his free hand, Ghost took off his sunglasses and looked him square in the eyes. Though Ghost normally looked tired, today his dark circles were a touch more pronounced, his eye bags puffy. How much sleep did he lose over this? "I shouldn't have called you stupid. You're just trying to be nice, like always, and I should trust you."

With those words, MacTavish's chest hurt. An apology? Ghost was actually sorry for this? If only he could jump back and pull the plug on that kiss. He shouldn't have. No, he _wouldn't_ have if he realized that Ghost would actually be sorry. Since it happened, he knew it had been a mistake and sure enough, he was right.

Maybe it was best if Ghost never heard about his lapse in judgement. He'd make it up to him by breaking things off with Scarab when she was feeling better. Once that sordid chapter was closed, maybe then their relationship could carry on with a semblance of normality.

"Well? Are you going to say something?" Ghost asked, pulling the lower half of his balaclava off his face.

"I should be sorry too. I was wrong." MacTavish gave Ghost's hand a squeeze.

Just like that, Ghost tugged him in and gave him a soft kiss. It was no more than that, and yet it felt like an assuring "I forgive you." MacTavish pulled him in, smooched his forehead, and held him close. Despite his mistakes and the shit he did, this man remained loyally by his side.

He'd make this right. Somehow, someway.

_But how?_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was weird to write. I'll be hitting the part where Plan B goes off its rocker soon, and I'm not 100% decided on how I plan on handling it. This chapter had next to none of the original dialogue, mainly because Scarab and Soap swap cringe inducing bullying stories and none of it was relevant.  
> Originally, Scarab was supposed to be a gymnast as a kid, but the only reason that mattered was because there was an accident where she accidentally killed a classmate on the balance beam. Pretty sure I ripped that nonsense from "1000 Ways to Die" or something stupid like that. She also shares a story where a gaggle of girls harassed her to the point where one of them brought a knife to school and assaulted her - only for none of them to get in trouble. Neither of these angsty backstory points do much of anything (gymnastics girl gets mentioned once way later in a nightmare, but eh...) so I scrapped them. Odds are, Scarab's probably still got a history of doing gymnastics as well. I kinda like the idea of her being a cheerleader in high school as well.  
> Soap's bullied story wasn't all that inspired. Jocks gave him a hard time, blah blah blah... he hid in the school library. Again, it literally doesn't matter.
> 
> On another note, Younger Me wasn't good at writing relationships. As I believe I mentioned, Soap sites a dead girlfriend during the balcony scene as why he didn't feel comfortable being with Scarab, who then disregards it. They kiss and I guess are kiiiiiinda a thing if you squint? That came back here originally too. I'm pretty sure Scarab was angsting about dead gymnastics girl, while Soap tries to comfort her. She turns around and says something like, "Well it's easy for you to say, you never watched someone you cared about die!" Soap is reasonably pissed. It's like Scarab only listens when its convenient.  
> In a whole other level of cringe, Soap doesn't even need the dead girlfriend to be pissed. Gaz literally gets capped right before his eyes before he can do anything about it.


	6. Surprise! It's Pneumonia!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapter 12b
> 
> 12b. At base, there's drama. Ghost is a good b-friend.

Turns out spending half the night running around in the rain isn't all that good for you. Who could've guessed? According to Doc, Scarab came down with the flu, so he placed her on sick leave for the next few days. Hopefully after that, she'd be back to work. MacTavish took this time to plot a game plan for how he could let Scarab down easy. He thought out an entire "it's not you, it's me" speech about how he was gay (it wasn't accurate, Ghost and a couple other men were very specific exceptions) and that he didn't feel comfortable telling her up to this point. Something something, don't ask don't tell, and hope to fuck and back that she believes him.

After a couple days of hanging around on base, Nikolai was given a ride back to the Loyalist hideout in Ukraine, taking the dog, now dubbed Chekhov, with him. Before he boarded the plane, Nikolai patted his shoulder and said, "Good luck with your girlfriend."

"Girlfriend," MacTavish repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face. "W-wait, what gave you that idea?"

Nikolai frowned and tipped his head. "My friend, did you really think I could sleep with the two of you talking? You kissed as well, yes?"

He saw... Christ Almighty, he saw that...

He wanted to correct the man, but his words lodged in his throat. There was no way he could explain the situation he was in. The topic of homosexuality never came up between them, so he had no idea what Nikolai would think. He was a good friend, but this had the potential to be polarizing. Besides, Russia had a reputation as far as homophobia was concerned. The odds didn't look good. Instead, he croaked, "It's complicated..."

Nikolai didn't seem to think twice on that answer. "Like I said, best of luck to you." He gave him one of his bear hugs, patting his back as he did, before taking his leave. Could he be any more cryptic?

The following evening, MacTavish poked his head in Doc's office to inquire about Scarab. The medic was going through a few files in the cabinet at the time. He plucked one manila folder from the drawer and regarded the Captain with a nod.

"Let me guess, did you roll your ankle again?"

 _You slip on the O-course one time..._ MacTavish shook his head. "No. I'm just checking if Scarab was cleared for duty."

Doc set the folder down and fished through his pen cup for a highlighter. "Private Macey? I was going to send the report on that to your desk, but alright." He pulled a different paper from under the chaotic spread of files on his work desk, and held it out to MacTavish for him to take. "She reported that her cough got worse and she's having a severe amount of pain in her left side and back. Her fever spiked too. I think it's possible she might have developed pneumonia. For now, I'll be keeping her on bed rest for the rest of the week and put her on an antibiotic and Motrin."

She was still sick. Worse apparently. So much for resolving things tomorrow. MacTavish nodded. "I see."

Doc didn't look up as he ran the highlighter along a couple lines in whatever document he was going through. "She's spirited, I'll give her that. Managed to walk her ass all the way over here from the barracks. I had to call over Brandy to make sure she made it back to her dorm."

Brandy was a different medic. MacTavish encountered him less often than Doc, so he didn't know all that much about him. The guy was from the U.S. Army, and was a Sergeant if he wasn't mistaken. Like many of the men here, General Shepherd personally picked him, but his records were so painfully average that MacTavish had skimmed it. On one hand, he questioned why the medic was pulled at all, but on the other he did his work and didn't stir trouble.

"Was there something else you needed, Captain?" Doc asked.

"Ah, no. Thanks."

He didn't have much of anywhere to go after that, so he meandered back towards the barracks. It wasn't late, but most of the men would probably be off duty. A piece of paper was taped to the door to his quarters. He stared down the scrawled note.

It could only be from one person: Worm. That man's penmanship was so bad MacTavish had to have him retype any debriefs and paperwork he's ever turned in. He kept insisting that it was legible, but when you somehow can mistake "windy" for "vemly" there was a serious problem.

"Ya, Captain..." He squinted. "That's a fucking eight.... Okay, eight scribble ccur dhulhenge? Wait... Did he misspell soccer? Soccer challenge. C... C-uvme? to the friend?" MacTavish rubbed his chin. "Apparently someone wants to play football."

MacTavish plucked the note off his door and shoved it in his pocket. There was only one place anybody played football on base, and that was the field they used for drills. They had a couple of small nets that could be set up and stored as needed, so it was a good pass time for everyone. It used to be rugby until Buck got tackled hard, hit his head on the ground, and had anterograde amnesia for about a week. He ended up off the duty roster for a whole month, Price had to fumble through reporting the incident to Shepherd, and Roach (the best rugby player they had) was too scared to play because he was the poor sod who tackled Buck in the first place.

By context clues alone, he came across a crowd of twenty one people in the field in a mix of partial uniforms, gym clothes, and shirtlessness. Ghost and Roach were chatting to the side when he approached.

"Glad you decided to show up, MacTavish," Ghost greeted. His mask was still on and his sleeves were rolled up over his forearms. "I was starting to wonder."

"You could've picked someone other than Worm to send the missive." MacTavish replied, passing him the note. Ghost took one look and snorted a laugh. The Captain added, "I didn't realize people could write aneurysms."

Ghost shrugged. It was difficult to tell, but with the way the mask shifted on his face, he was definitely grinning. "I was going to send Roach, but I figured it wouldn't grab your attention like one of Worm's notes. You've been distracted these last few days, and I need another person on my team, so be a dear and help me kick Meat's arse."

It was impossible for him not to smile at this. "Just tell me where you want me."

That grin finally reached the lieutenant's eyes as they crinkled in the corners. "Goalie."

The ball came flying in from MacTavish's peripheral and he swatted it down to the ground before it could hit him in the hip. At its point of origin was Meat. "Hey, if you two are done shooting the shit, we can get this show on the road!"

And so began an hour long game, marked by a collection of Meat's dad jokes and Worm getting regularly called on illegal use of hands. MacTavish didn't claim to be the best goalie, but the net was half the size of a normal one. Only a couple of shots got past him, and they were from Archer, who managed to put such a ridiculous spin on the ball that it effectively dodged his hand.

The sun dropped below the horizon and soon the field was only lit by the full moon and the semi-distant flood lights around the base's buildings and barracks. The low light made white shirts and skin appear to glow. The ball blinked in and out of his line of sight between a tangle of legs. On the opposite end of the field, Meat's goalie, Heatstroke, didn't fair so well under the combined tag team of Roach and Ghost on offense. At one point, Roach passed the ball to Ghost, and the lieutenant launched that thing so fast that it was a blur.

It hit Heatstroke square in the chest, and every man in the field was treated to her shout, "Fuck! My tit!"

"You alright?" Ghost asked.

Heatstroke held her boob. "Yeah, I think I'll live."

The game was close, about 4-3, with their team on top. The lot of them went to the mess together, chatting and laughing. Dinner was already served and in full swing. This horde of sweat soaked men took up a whole table. MacTavish sat at the far end with Ghost by his side.

"It's good to see everyone in high spirits," MacTavish mentioned.

Ghost picked at his stew. "I don't think you realize how much of an impact you have on them. These last few days, you've been antsy and they pick up on that. Meat arranged this game to ease the tension."

Down on the opposite end of the table, Meat reached across and snagged Royce's dinner roll, jamming it in his mouth. Royce rolled his eyes, but didn't seem especially bothered by the loss of his roll. Certainly not when Roach simply handed him his.

"You're right," MacTavish said. "If the General allows it, they all deserve a holiday."

"If? Planning on some negotiations?" Ghost asked. "If we're lucky, maybe we'll get an actual Christmas party this year."

Last year, they made a tree out of tires and aluminum bottles outside one of the warehouses. They worked as usual. It was late July now. Maybe if he put the suggestion out there early, Shepherd would be more willing to agree to the idea. "We'll see."

Ghost tapped his knee against his. "Christmas party or not, maybe we can drive to that bar in town when we got a day to kill."

The bar in question was some quaint hole in the wall they discovered a few years back and frequented after missions. They'd have a few rounds, walk the lamp lit streets. If they went in civilian clothes, MacTavish felt comfortable enough to sit close and hold hands and kiss in public.

A few times, they crashed at a motel for the night and relished in the additional privacy. Away from base, the pair of them were willing to be a lot more adventurous than in his quarters. Despite paper thin walls, noise didn't feel like so much an issue.

MacTavish idled with his spork. He didn't realize he was nearly this much a romantic until Ghost. If they weren't around other people, if his image didn't matter, he'd kiss Ghost on the head and hold him close. "I'd like that. I can treat you, if you want."

"Something tells me you could use the treat more than me, mate," Ghost remarked.

Up to this point, MacTavish had one of his hands in his lap. Ghost's stealthily slipped over and locked their fingers together. This was as much as they could get away with without drawing attention to it. It was so small, and yet it meant so much. When dinner was done, Ghost had no choice but to let go.

Only when they returned to the privacy of MacTavish's quarters were they able to act further. The bed creaked as MacTavish straddled over Ghost and pulled his mask up to kiss his jawline.

Ghost laughed lightly, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "You're being extra affectionate today, aren't you?"

"After everything, I think you deserve a little spoiling." MacTavish pecked his lips and drew back just to watch Ghost push his head up for more. "Whatever you want this time."

"Anything?"

"Mhm..." MacTavish slipped his hand up Ghost's shirt and felt along his chest. He gave one of his nipples a gentle twist, the lieutenant gasped. "Well, Ghost?"

Ghost tugged the mask off all the way at this point. His short hair was matted from being contained for so long. "For starters, don't call me Ghost."

MacTavish hummed against his neck, amused by the request. "And what would you like me to call you, Lieutenant?"

Before Ghost could answer, he traced his finger down his abs. This elicited a shudder. "N-not that."

"Oh? Riley then?" He reached the tented fabric of his pants. Camouflage didn't do a whole lot of good hiding it. Pressing down with the heel of his palm, he came up to Ghost's ear and asked, "Or would you rather I call you _Simon_?"

There were goosebumps all up Ghost's arms, and he felt the perked hair brush against his neck as Ghost embraced him. "Please. Simon's good."

\--- --- ---

Heatstroke returned to her dorm after the soccer game and dinner. It was a high energy match, and she was pleasantly tired. Thankfully her boob stopped stinging after Ghost's kick. She thought it'd bruise for a sec.

Tucked under a couple thin blankets and propped up with her pillow, Scarab finally seemed to be sleeping. Heatstroke sighed with relief. The last few days had been rough. Nothing but coughing and wheezing and Scarab complaining that she couldn't sleep whatsoever with how much pain she was in.

Maybe she just got so tired that she couldn't stay awake.

Thinking little on the matter, Heatstroke changed out of her sweaty clothes and crawled into her bed on the other side of the room. Being here now, with Scarab, was absolutely surreal. Once upon a little over a decade before, they met in school and became fast friends. In a lot of ways, she joined the military because the way Scarab talked about it inspired her.

Who would've thought that they'd both be here together? If it were a dream, it was one she didn't want to wake up from.

Before she could fall asleep, Scarab woke with a fit of hacking coughs. She clutched her side and groaned once it subsided. "...Riley...? What time is it?"

"Ten past 21:00. Did you need something?" Heatstroke sat up and crossed her legs.

Scarab shook her head. "Don't worry about it, I don't have much of an appetite anyways."

"Pneumonia must be kicking your ass."

With a faint nod, Scarab drew a short, wheezing breath, and tapped her head back against the wall. "I feel terrible."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was weird to write, since I had literally about only half of Plan B's chapter worth of material to work with. It's only about 500-700 words worth of material that I somehow had to expand into a full chapter. This ended up being shorter than the others, but it's mostly a breather episode. Nice because the next one is where Plan B goes ape shit. Scarab develops pneumonia as a result of her flu, and people around the base are trying to get MacTavish less anxious in their own ways.  
> Originally, Roach tries to get him to join a game of rugby and gets turned down. Then Meat and Royce tag team and abduct him for a walk on the hiking trails. Now, because I'm a sucker for wholesome family moments, I changed it to a soccer game where more of the characters could get involved. I guess in theory, they could have a mini soccer tournament, since they have enough for four teams with a couple people left over. Probably more if they use smaller teams. I'll need to consider that for an Extra.  
> Also, Younger Me didn't know how pneumonia worked. Sure enough, last year, I came down with it and got misdiagnosed about 2-3 times. I reread this chapter and the next after that, and it's laughable how wrong I wrote it. I'm not writing it from Scarab's perspective, but I'm keeping it a lot more in line with how that actually works.  
> I'm not looking forward to fixing the next arc of this story...


	7. Cigarette-Dumpster Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 13, 14, and 15a
> 
> 13\. Scarab's still sick. Medic thinks they should put her out of her misery. Ghost is still a good b-friend. Scarab recovers.  
> 14\. They question the medic on wanting to euthanize Scarab. He's Russian now! He tried to shoot Scarab but bulletproof vest. Interrogation with Ghost. He works with Makarov. He dies before he can out General Shepherd.  
> 15a. Enter Shepherd. He says stupid thing, Scarab hears and cries traitor. He sends her to an asylum.

Several years ago, MacTavish had a two week assignment in Texas for a military training exercise. Long story short, he stepped in a fire ant nest and the swarm got in under his boot and pant leg to sting him up to his thigh. The pain of all those stings kept him up for a couple days. The way the company was darting every which way felt oddly reminiscent to that swarming behavior. He couldn't go more than ten minutes without someone approaching him for something or some problem and asking how he wanted it addressed.

The reason behind the sudden activity was simple. General Shepherd said he'd be coming at the end of the week to inspect the base. A bit of housekeeping and maintenance work was needed to make the place presentable (there was still a hole in the rec room wall that needed spackling after Roach's birthday party). The General was a notorious perfectionist, so any slight crack, paint bubble, and dead light bulb got scrutinized. MacTavish had a mess of things to worry about between the odd list of repairs and paperwork, so maybe that was why he completely spaced on Scarab still being on SIQ status.

He probably wouldn't have thought about it at all if he hadn't run into Heatstroke one day. The woman had oil stains on her clothes, a couple spots on her face. Odds were she got pulled to help strip and clean every gun in the armory. Heatstroke waved a filthy cleaning rag as she flagged him down. "Hey, Captain!"

MacTavish shifted a stack of paperwork in need of filing under his arm. "Hey. Been keeping busy, I hope."

She nodded and rested a hand on her hip. "You know it. I'm just glad Ghost didn't assign me to inventory the warehouse."

That usually fell on Scarecrow or Rocket, the former being good with crunching numbers and the latter kept earning himself off record wrist slaps due to minor infractions that MacTavish didn't feel were worth writing up. "Aces in their places. He probably put you there because your rifle was the cleanest."

"Probably," she agreed. "So, uh, I don't mean to pry or anything, Captain, but I overheard Brandy mention that Scarab might need to be sent to the clinic. Do you think that's something that'll have to happen?"

... Now that she mentioned it, he recalled Brandy saying as much to him. Unfortunately, the Captain was on day three of skipping sleep to catch up on paperwork and Brandy confronted him during one of his brief breaks (10 minutes of resting his head on his desk with his eyes shut). The conversation went in one ear and out the other. MacTavish gave a couple bewildered blinks as the exchange was refreshed in his head. "Right... he did say that, didn't he. I'm no doctor, Heatstroke, so if he and Doc think that she needs it, then I'm not going to argue."

Heatstroke's blue eyes turned stormy as she looked down. "That's fair. She hasn't gotten much of any sleep in a week now. I'm worried."

"She's spirited," MacTavish said, repeating Doc's earlier words, and patted Heatstroke on the bicep. "Let's just do what we can to make sure she's taken care of, and I'm sure the situation will sort itself out."

"I've gotta get some more solvent. Thanks for your time, Captain." Heatstroke hurried past him, but she lost much of the spring in her step that had been there before.

The two of them were close, he knew that much already. Where one was, the other was often times nearby. He wished he could offer more definite assurance than this, but General Shepherd's helicopter would be landing noon tomorrow and that had to take priority.

By that evening, he finally got the rest of the paperwork filled, sorted, and filed. Much of the small tasks assigned around the base were taken care of too. A cracked tile in one of the latrines wasn't addressed, but he could find a way to steer General Shepherd away from that. He went back to his dorm to get some much needed sleep.

Ghost was already sitting on his bed, cross legged and reading a book. Wordlessly, he flopped in beside him, causing the lieutenant to bounce on the creaky mattress. Turning the page, Ghost continued reading. "Long day?"

MacTavish dropped his head into the pillow and mumbled, "A wee bit.."

He felt a hand smooth down his mohawk. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Truthfully, he wanted to sleep. He shifted his head to one side so he could speak clearly. "Brandy's considering sending Scarab to a clinic. I ran into Heatstroke and she's worried. Said she's barely sleeping."

"Sounds familiar."

MacTavish glared at him from the corner of his eye. "Cute. My work's done."

Ghost lowered his book. "Yes, but remember how the last time you pulled three all-nighters, you slept in a whole day and were tired for another four? How do you plan on keeping up once General Shepherd arrives?"

"Coffee and self denial. Next question?"

"I'm just worried about you is all. Things have been kicking up and you work yourself ragged." Ghost continued to pet him. Feeling his thumb brush along the buzzed down hair on the side of his head, MacTavish shut his eyes and yawned. "If you need me to, I can deal with the General so you can rest."

The best MacTavish could formulate for a response was a grunt. Ghost clicked his tongue and the bed creaked as he moved around.

"Could at least kick your boots off before you decide to pass out."

If MacTavish weren't so dead tired, he would've helped in some way as Ghost untied his laces and pulled his boots off. They hit the floor with a couple soft clacks and Ghost tangled himself up around him. Warm and comfy, he was out.

\--- --- ---

Every single gun had needed to be cleaned in the armory. Heatstroke, Ghost, and Roach tag teamed the job over the last two days and managed to finish up with time to spare. At this point, she was convinced she'd smell like gun cleaner and lubricant for weeks. Her fingertips were peeling from so many rounds of solvents and oils and then hand washings. Her pinkie nail even split pretty close to the nail bed.

When she returned to her and Scarab's quarters, it was to the woman having yet another coughing fit. Heatstroke sat by her bedside and passed her a cup of water. "How you feeling?"

"Like shit." Scarab barely got a sip in before she bowed her head and coughed again into the crook of her elbow. Due to the violence of her hacking, she spilled a bit of water on the blanket.

Not knowing what else to do, Heatstroke took back the cup and tentatively rubbed her hand along Scarab's back. She didn't know how much good this did, but it seemed to offer a little bit of comfort. "Not feeling any better at all?"

The coughing subsided. "My ribs don't hurt as much, I guess." Scarab rubbed her eyes. "Fuck..."

It was a loose answer, hardly anything, but it made Heatstroke hopeful. Maybe it'd be enough that she'd be able to properly lay down and sleep.

That night, her hopes were dashed, as Scarab coughed through the night and was still in too much pain to catch more than an hour of rest. Heatstroke was kept up most of the night as well by the noise. The next morning, she was nearly passing out in her cereal.

Roach tapped her shoulder, snapping her back to alertness. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Mm? Sorry." Heatstroke would have added more, but she cut herself off with a loud yawn.

He sighed. "It's fine. I'm just a little worried about the Captain. He's been up for few days getting all this work done and General Shepherd's coming today."

Oh, Captain MacTavish hasn't been sleeping well these last few days? Considering Scarab's been up for the last week, and by extension Heatstroke was also losing a lot of sleep, she found it a little hard to feel sympathetic. He could go to bed if he wanted. If he found a better balance between his paperwork and other duties, he wouldn't have to work three days straight to get all that clerical work caught up.

Better yet, he should just get a fucking secretary.

He'd better not get a desk job ever.

"You're spacing again," Roach noted.

"What kinda secretary do you think the Captain would get?" She asked.

Roach gawked. "Umm... I don't know. He's pretty stubborn about doing his own work himself."

"He looks like a red-head sort to me."

"Sure, Heatstroke. Whatever you say." Roach tapped the bowl on her tray. "Finish your breakfast will you? Your oats are going to turn to mush."

She huffed and scarfed the rest of her cereal down. Breakfast made her marginally more awake, at least enough that she was able to drag her sorry ass through drills and demonstrations and then her regular duties. Throughout the day, she spotted General Shepherd, either flanked by MacTavish/Ghost/both, as he toured the base. Along with them were a couple of soldiers garbed in full black uniforms; a patch on their sleeve was a spade, and a different one was a rook with the writing "Umbra Catervae."

"Shadow Company...?" The name was unfamiliar. The patches more so. Maybe these were special forces so special that Shepherd kept them extra secret. Dudes were wearing all black after all. This read like a secret family type situation.

That evening, she found Ghost in the rec room reading and decided he'd be a good person to ask. "So what's the deal with those guys in black with Shepherd?"

Ghost lowered his book. "Them? PMCs. The General wanted a separate force available that could work in tandem with us. So odds are we'll have a few joint ops with them in the near future."

They were a new bunch of toys for the man. Suddenly those patches seemed fitting. Heatstroke left Ghost to his reading and retired for the evening. On her way back to her quarters, she spied Shepherd and Brandy talking in the otherwise empty infirmary, but didn't think twice on that. Old man probably had back pains.

Interestingly, Scarab's cough had died down significantly since that morning. What's more, she was _finally_ asleep. Heatstroke heaved a sigh of relief and hit the hay as well.

When Heatstroke woke up, it was to an all too familiar bang. A single gunshot: Desert Eagle, if she had to guess. The sky and room were dark, but in the shadows she could just barely make out the outline of the other bed. Empty. Heatstroke's heart dropped.

Where was Scarab? There was no going back to sleep now. She yanked on her boots and in her haste tucked her laces in under the tongue of the shoes, and raced out of the barracks. There were a few other stray men awoken by the gunshot and in various states of tired confusion who milled in the hallway.

The armory wasn't too far from the barracks themselves. Heatstroke sprinted over, grabbed the handle, and threw the door wide open. Dark spatter painted the far wall. Peeking out from behind the counter, was a limp hand and the edge of a blood puddle.

She'd been deployed in Afghanistan a couple times, went on anti terrorism assignments with the Task Force, and saw a lot in her eight years of service. Death was no stranger. There was a disconnect though. When it was enemy militia running at you guns ablaze, you stop thinking about the fact that you are taking lives. But this wasn't a war zone. This was a base, the safest place any of them could be, and one of their own was lying dead.

Her blood erratically pounded in hear eardrums. She couldn't move, her legs refused to step forward into the room or turn and run. She was queasy, dizzy. The floor felt like it was crawling beneath her. Her tongue lost all feeling.

Suddenly, the armory fell away into a black sea.

\--- --- ---

MacTavish woke to a loud banging on his door. A frantic voice shouted, "Captain! Captain! It's an emergency!"

Was that... Scarab...? Wasn't she still on sick leave? Why the bloody hell was she of all people here notifying him of an emergency?

Ghost was also sitting up in bed at this point and wore a similar look of confusion. MacTavish waved for him to stay down and he got up to answer the door. Scarab was in the hall, dressed lightly and shaking. Her face was ghostly pale. For two seconds, he felt like he was staring at a banshee.

"It's the middle of the night, Scarab. What's wrong?"

"Brandy, he- he's _dead_!"

Banshee apparently wasn't inaccurate. It was a combination of extreme exhaustion and shock that prompted MacTavish's unhelpful response of "...huh?"

She grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the room with a frantic, "Come on! COME ON!"

He had no choice but to follow. "Alright, alright. Do you know what happened?"

Scarab didn't let him go for a second, so he felt her hand tighten as she said, "Brandy broke into the armory and- It looks like a suicide..."

This didn't feel real.

It couldn't be.

Of all people, Brandy? He was reclusive and all, but MacTavish hadn't exactly pegged him as the type.

Then again, he barely knew him. The warning signs were probably there and he just didn't see them...

When they reached the armory, there was a mess of activity there. Royce kept a number of other curious onlookers away from the room. Near the wide open door, Roach and General Shepherd were crouched beside an unconscious Heatstroke.

Scarab paused and dropped MacTavish's hand. "Shit, Riley?!" She tried to run over to the other woman, but Royce stopped her with an arm.

"Please, just stay back for now, we don't want too many people near the scene."

"I found the fucking scene. Now let me through." Scarab slapped his arm out of her way and rushed over to Heatstroke's side.

Royce made no further move to stop her. "I sent Meat to get you, Captain. You didn't happen to see him on your way, did you?"

"No. Why the hell's the General here?" MacTavish asked. "And Heatstroke for that matter?"

"Hell if I know. They both must've heard the gun shot like the rest of us. General Shepherd was turning Heatstroke on her side when I came over. Roach was with me too, he'll say the same thing." Royce sidestepped to let him pass. "Anyways, you should go talk to him."

MacTavish nodded and approached the growing horde around Heatstroke. "She responsive?"

"Yeah..." Heatstroke herself answered in a small voice, and waved a hand.

"She tried to sit up and nearly fainted all over again." Roach explained. "I could carry her down to the infirmary, Captain. Get Doc to have a look."

"Go ahead."

Roach helped Heatstroke up and offered his shoulder for her to hang off as her legs quaked like a baby deer. Heatstroke was notably shorter than him, so it looked a little awkward. Scarab got up and started to follow them as well.

"Scarab, you stay here." MacTavish ran his hand through his mohawk. "You said you were the first person to find the body, so I've got questions for you."

The woman nodded grimly.

It was about then that Meat and Ghost appeared. "So I couldn't find Captain MacTavish, but I did find Ghost- Oh shit, he's already here?"

"Been here for a few minutes now," Royce confirmed. "Scarab fetched him."

"General Shepherd, you wouldn't mind answering some questions as well?" MacTavish asked.

The General didn't seem remotely bothered by the question. "Seeing as I've become a witness, I will need to anyways."

"Good." MacTavish waved Ghost over. "Mind checking the scene?"

"Will do."

MacTavish turned back to General Shepherd and Scarab. "Alright. Scarab, apparently you were the first one on the scene?"

"That's right. I was getting some fresh air outside the barracks when I heard the gunshot. I came running, and discovered the lock was broken on the door. Brandy was in there. There was a note he'd left on the counter. I didn't read it, since it was a couple pages and I didn't feel like there was time, so I went to get you."

"You didn't see him go in the armory at all?"

"No, sir. I would've stopped him if I had."

"And what about you, sir?" MacTavish asked.

General Shepherd glanced at the doorway. "It was late and I was having a smoke when I heard the shot. I was closer to the offices, so it took me longer to get here. When I turned the corner, I noticed Corporal Jays collapsed just outside, so I checked if she was okay and then went inside the room to investigate. Sergeant Brandy was dead, of course. I didn't notice a note though."

MacTavish leaned into the armory. "Oi, Ghost, do you see a note on the counter?"

Ghost's head popped up from behind the counter. "No." And like a gopher, he vanished from view again.

Nothing like the mystery of the disappearing note. "Okay. The only real issue I'm seeing with both your accounts is whether or not Brandy left a note behind. Maybe Heatstroke went in and picked it up?"

"Seems unlikely," the General said. "Why would she go in, pocket it, and then faint in the hallway? I'm pretty sure she didn't step foot in the room."

Scratch that. MacTavish went to the next logical answer. "Scarab, did you take anything in the room, the note or otherwise?"

"No. I looked, but I didn't touch anything." To further her point, she turned out her sweatpants pockets to show that they were empty.

That left two final explanations and he didn't like either one. "If neither Heatstroke nor you took the note, then that means that General Shepherd would have had to or else there wasn't a note in the first place."

"I don't have the note," Shepherd stated. "If you feel you have to, you can check."

Better safe than sorry, right? MacTavish patted the General down. If there was a two page thick note folded up in one of his uniform pockets, he would have felt that. The pat down turned up nothing. "Scarab, are you sure you didn't happen to see some other document on the table?"

Scarab's eyes flashed and she continued to allege that "The note was there, it has to be somewhere." Although he'd already noticed it, in her frantic and alarmed state, she had a very sickly pallor and dark circles so pronounced that she almost looked like she had a pair of shiners. He stopped being able to keep up with her attempts to rationalize how the note could exist, in part because she was talking so fast that she was spitting on every other word. The first words he definitely understood was when Scarab jabbed a finger at General Shepherd. "You! You're a traitor!"

This caused just about everyone in the hallway to gawk at her. Ghost had even stood up and spectated with his sunglasses hanging low on his nose.

General Shepherd pushed her hand down from his face. "Okay now, _I'm not_. What the fuck are you talking about, Private?"

"Don't play dumb!" She snapped. "If you don't have the note then you must've hid it somewhere, right? Why? Brandy must've known you were up to something and wrote it in his note!"

What. The. Fuck.

"It's been a long month..." Shepherd sighed, shaking his head. "I know Brandy was primarily taking care of you this last week, and the situation now must be distressing for you. If you need to take a few days to sort yourself out, that's fine. But-"

"But nothing! I know I saw it! It was there!" Scarab then looked to MacTavish and the others in the hall, seeking back up on the matter. His stomach lurched. Clearly she had no idea how manic she sounded right now. Her brows pinched with frustration.

MacTavish stepped in and set a hand on her shoulder. "Scarab, this is a hard time for everyone. Maybe it's best if you do just relax for a bit."

"But, Captain-!"

"Scarab!" He shouted. It was enough to make her clamp her mouth shut. "Listen. You're not in the best frame of mind right now. I'm relieving you of duty for the next three days. See the councilor in that time. Am I understood?"

Scarab lost much of the hostility in her posture, replaced with defeat and visible helplessness as she answered with a faint "Yes, sir..." and dragged her feet on the way out.

General Shepherd patted MacTavish on the shoulder. "You did the right thing, son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute time and a half. My beta reader had to do a double take because this reads so differently than how this plays out in Plan B.  
> Originally, Brandy was a nameless medic who was suggests euthanasia when Scarab doesn't seem to be recovering from pneumonia in a week. That's not even an exaggeration. I wish it was. Scarab gets better out of nowhere, and she and Soap question him about why he wanted to have her killed (valid concern to bring up to one's physician). He flops through a shitty explanation before switching to a Russian accent and revealing that "SURPRISE" he was working with Makarov all along. They get Ghost in on the party and interrogate this guy. Then Shepherd "leaped into the room" asking what happened (for added stupidity, he had no reason to be there either, he just was). They sass their CO a bit and Shepherd grumbles about wanting to kill them under his breath, at which point Scarab screams about him being a traitor. He tries to let her off easy, like he's way more reasonable about this than he needs to be. And then she attempts to assault him and he has Meat and Royce send her to an asylum.  
> Did you lose any brain cells yet?  
> I sure as shit did trying to figure a way to make all that make sense.  
> Ultimately, I wanted the medic to still die, and I wanted it to be ambiguous whether or not the note actually existed so that I could keep a large amount of the general conflict here intact.
> 
> On a separate note, I'm adding the Plan B chapter summaries I have jotted down in the chapter summary section so that you guys can get a clue what the source material had and I can cover the more minute details in my end notes.


	8. The Open Can of Worms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 15b and 16
> 
> 15b. Soap visits, they fight.  
> 16\. Shepherd has Scarab's memories erased. She is returned, remembers shit within a day. Shepherd threatens her, then shoots her. She's found and tended to.

Brandy's death left the base shaken. For something like this to happen, here of all places, it was unsettling. With no final words, there wasn't any definitive way to know for sure exactly why he chose to take his own life. The mystery presented a host of speculation from the rumor mill, guesses and assertions about him. Contradictions mainly. There were warning signs. There weren't any. Brandy tried to reach out. Brandy didn't try. He was depressed. He was getting better...

Reviewing all the photographs of the scene and the Sergeant's file, Ghost's windpipe constricted. There wasn't any doubt that this was a suicide. The pistol was in his hand, and every detail of the scene was consistent with him having shot himself and collapsing. His body was packed and sent back to his parents in the States. His files were unhelpful. MacTavish had said it in the past, the kid was unremarkable. He flew under the radar, lacked presence, and was often times easily overlooked. The only thing Ghost was able to glean from it was that his father was a Major.

In an effort to retrace the medic's steps that day, he went through security footage, compiled a list of people he came in contact with that day, and started interviewing. Though he didn't want to, he went to Doc first.

"No, nothing he did that day struck me as out of the ordinary," Doc told him. The buttons of his uniform weren't aligned properly and his reddened eyes hinted that he must've been crying recently. "Brandy reported in, went to check on Scarab like he'd been doing all week, and came back. It was quiet that day, so I let him take over the infirmary after that and told him to call me if anything serious came up."

"And nothing did," Ghost deduced.

"Nothing important." Doc rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Apparently only two people came in, and he filed reports on treatment for them."

Ghost lifted his chin. "Mind if I see them?"

"Sure. I already looked 'em over." Doc got up from his chair and rooted through the filing cabinet to pull out two papers and passed them to the lieutenant. "Bearcat came in around 17:00 with a cut on his arm he got while fixing one of the trucks. The other one-"

"Was General Shepherd." Ghost scanned over the document. At 19:34, he came in because of back pain. According to the report, it was just a strained muscle, so he gave the General two Motrin and sent him on his way. "Wait a tick, I already knew the General went in, but the security footage showed that he stayed for half an hour."

"I guess the General stuck around to chat with him. He's close friends with Brandy's father, you know."

"Really?" This was news. Ghost passed the files back to Doc and stood up. "Then by that logic, he and Brandy were probably on familiar terms. Thanks, I'll talk to him."

Ghost had figured that General Shepherd would be reluctant to discuss the subject, but he was remarkably open about it. "Major Brandy and I have been friends for almost as long as I've been in the service. Sergeant Brandy... Ian was like a nephew to me."

"I'm sure this must hit you pretty hard then, sir."

General Shepherd sighed. "It does."

"If you don't mind me asking, you spoke with him when you went into the infirmary that night. What did the two of you talk about?"

"We were just catching up. He wanted to know what I'd been up to. I asked him how he felt in the Task Force, and he admitted to feeling inadequate compared to everyone around him." The General looked Ghost dead in the eye and continued, "In some ways, I'm responsible for Ian's death. I pushed him here and thought he'd rise to meet the challenge. I was wrong."

"Don't be too hard on yourself. The lot of us were with him day to day and didn't see this coming." It was all he could say.

\--- --- ---

In all of MacTavish's thirty years, he never exactly liked the phrase 'opening a can of worms.' In his mind, if it was a problem, it should be pointed out so that something could be done about it. Nothing can be fixed if everyone "ignored" the issue, right? Right.

He vastly underestimated this particular can, however.

The intention was to talk Scarab down from the outlandish concept of General Shepherd being a traitor. He gave her a day to rest and hoped that a night of sleep would have gotten her to some semblance of normality. When he knocked and she answered, however, he was met with an entirely different reality. Scarab somehow looked worse than before. Her hair was unkempt and tangled. Her eyes were lightless, yet sharp with aggression. Behind her, scattered about on one of the beds were torn out papers from a spiral notebook and a collection of pens and markers. Crumbled sheets littered the floor and a few sticky notes with sloppy writing dotted that wall.

...Was she starting a conspiracy wall in here?

MacTavish pretended not to notice. "Hello, Scarab. Have you been resting?"

The answer was a slow, drawn out blink, as if to say "Does it look like I have?"

"I'll take that as a no," he said. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, all his hair stood on end. This felt less like a dorm and more like a mine field. "I should leave you be then-"

"What's this about, _Captain_?" Scarab questioned. Her nails started to dig into the wood.

In all the months he'd worked with this woman, he never saw her with quite the murderous glint in her eyes she had now. This went beyond a person suffering from extreme exhaustion. If there was a landmine in this room, it was her. If they were going to get anywhere though, he needed to step on it. "I wanted to speak with you about your outburst the other night, but if you're still exhausted, it can wait."

"I'm fine," she claimed. "Go ahead. Am I getting punished for stepping out of line and accusing the General of betrayal?"

"Not exactly. General Shepherd was very understanding about the whole situation, especially after he heard about your current condition-"

"My current condition? Captain, I feel fine. Better than I have all week."

Her physical appearance begged to differ. MacTavish tried to disregard her interruption. "The point is, he and I both believe you're just not in a good state of mind at the moment. I didn't confine you to quarters as a punishment. It's just so you can get some sleep."

Scarab's head turned down, casting eerie shadows from her brow line over her eyes. "... If that was the case, then why do I need to see a councilor?"

"Simple. It's just to make sure you're okay to resume your duties. We're not against you, despite how this must feel on your end."

"You say that, but you took his side without any question!" She snapped and stormed into her room.

Ah. There was the landmine. MacTavish didn't flinch. "Scarab, settle-"

"Don't _tell me_ to settle down!" She grabbed the pillow off her bed and whipped the damn thing at his face with just enough force that it slightly hurt. "He's suspicious! Why can't you see that?"

He picked up the pillow from the floor and came in to replace it on her bed. "What would you like me to say? There's no evidence that there was a note. You're asking me to accuse my CO of tampering with a scene with zero basis."

"Then what do you know?!"

"You _thought_ you saw a note, Scarab. You yourself said that you didn't read it. That's what I know." He took a deep breath and went to leave. "Just think about that, alright?" Tempting as it was, he didn't slam the door shut. he couldn't afford to get mad and further isolate her.

If he had to guess, Scarab got to a point where she lost so much sleep that she simply couldn't. Whether or not that was a real thing, he wasn't totally sure, but he decided to talk to Doc about it. What he didn't expect was not even two hours after he brought this up, the medic came into his office nervously and planted a single treatment form on his desk.

"You gave her a sleep aid?" MacTavish inquired, studying the queer expression that painted Doc's face.

His discomfort visibly grew. "Yes, sir. I, um, I slipped it in with her antibiotic without telling her."

Was it underhanded? Yes. Could it land Doc in serious trouble if it was ever brought up? Probably. Did MacTavish feel like it was necessary at that point? 100%. MacTavish promptly threw the file in the shredder. "This doesn't leave this room."

Doc stood stock stiff and took several seconds before he found the voice to respond. "Y-yes, sir."

Evidently, the single pill was all she needed. Scarab slept through that day on it and then the next without needing a second dose. It was welcome news. After three days of rest time, all that was left was for the company's councilor to take a look at her. If she was in a better head space, then this whole ordeal would be over. If not, then he feared how she'd react to being told she needed to take more time off.

MacTavish hadn't seen or spoken to her since the short argument, so he had no context about what she looked like now after her two day hibernation. Imagine his surprise when Dr. Joyce gave her the green light with a single notation that she was suffering from over exhaustion.

"Really? That's all it was?" He asked.

Dr. Joyce nodded. "Don't get me wrong, Brandy's death has her rattled. It has everyone rattled. When I spoke to her today, she seemed tired, but not paranoid at this point. I think what happened that night was an isolated episode, Captain MacTavish."

An explosive one at that. "Did... she mention anything about a note to you?"

The councilor locked his hands behind his back. "She did. Said that she was sure she saw it at the time, but figured she was probably mistaken."

Problem solved. At least, that should have been, so why did he have this sick feeling that this was far from over? He left to take all this and relay it to Ghost. His Second was much better at sifting through this sort of information than he was.

Finding the lieutenant turned out to be a harder task than he expected. All the usual spots were vacant and nobody had seen him for half the day. He found Ghost in the rec room, attentively reading over a file that evening. MacTavish sat beside him on the sofa. "You know, there are better places for desk work, mate."

"Didn't know if you needed your desk today." Ghost hadn't taken his eyes off the page. "Did you need something, MacTavish?"

He took that prompting as a chance to tell Ghost about all this nonsense on his end, glazing over Doc sneaking a sleeping pill of course. Despite being absorbed in paperwork, he had the courtesy to nod along. Somewhere over the course of storytelling, they shifted so that Ghost was resting his back against MacTavish's chest with the Captain's chin propped on his head.

"Would you relax? It's past curfew, nobody's coming in here." Ghost flipped the paper he'd been reading over. "You're the worst pillow..."

This was also a public space. He supposed Ghost had a point and tried to ease up a little. "Aren't your eyes sore after reading that same file all day?"

"Somebody has to."

MacTavish wrapped his arms around Ghost and sighed. "I don't think the answer's in his file."

Ghost's hand clenched the folder, causing it and the 2 cm thick stack of papers to bend. "It has to be."

"I know you want one. We all do." MacTavish hugged him tighter. "But you've upturned every stone. Maybe something will come up later, but right now, you're just burning yourself out."

A couple small patters hit the paper, leaving wet stains in the middle of a paragraph. Ghost took a sharp breath.

As gently as he could, MacTavish worked Ghost's hand off the folder and shut it, setting it aside on the coffee table. "Talk to me."

"..."

"Simon, please."

"We've got a social lot, but somehow Brandy fell through the cracks." Ghost took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "It took him killing himself for any of us to start listening. It's sick."

Back when Ghost had joined the Task Force, he'd been quiet too. It was little wonder why this was affecting him so much. At its core though, there was a fundamental difference. Ghost was reserved partly because he was introverted and partly due to recent trauma. Sure, it took time, but once he warmed up to everyone, he stopped isolating himself and talked about his problems. Brandy came across as more anxious and socially awkward. Maybe he wanted to be with other people but struggled to reach out.

"Maybe we all could've tried harder with him," MacTavish said softly. "This isn't something you should beat yourself up over though."

"'suppose not... I actually talked to General Shepherd yesterday. He wanted to gather everyone up on the green before he leaves in a couple of days, observe a moment of silence for Brandy and give everyone the rest of the day off."

MacTavish felt a growing knot of tension in his temples. "Oddly generous, coming from the same man who only ever approves half the base for a holiday off at a time."

"I think it's what everyone needs right now."

"I agree with you, it's just a little amazing coming from Shepherd of all people."

\--- --- ---

It was the final day of July, and the last thing Roach wanted was to be standing out in the field late morning listening to General Shepherd talk to the company. Nothing against the man, it just felt like this moment of silence was coming a little late. He understood that part of the delay came in the long investigation process. He also knew that a different, more hushed part of the delay was because of Scarab's outburst. If he had to guess (and if Royce's hunch was correct), the General was probably keeping a low profile on base the last number of days to let that whole thing settle.

To Shepherd's credit, his speech was mercifully brief. They even got the day off afterwards.

He got to enjoy it for all of about three minutes before he watched Scarab march straight towards the General. He wasn't there for the outburst itself, but the story he heard from Meat made it sound ugly. Fearing the worst, Roach fell in step beside her in case she did anything reckless.

General Shepherd looked puzzled by the pair of them approaching, but he didn't move away. "Can I help you, Sergeant Sanderson, Private Macey?"

Scarab glanced over her shoulder at him, completely nonplussed at the realization that he followed her. She shook herself and turned her attention square on the General. "I wanted to apologize, sir. I spoke out of line before."

Roach exhaled the breath he'd been holding.

"Apology accepted."

"I'm sure you understand how I jumped to that conclusion, though. If there was a note, you and I are the only two with the opportunity to get rid of it."

The Sergeant nearly choked. Was this woman sane? Seriously? She lost the first time and she planned on chancing this AGAIN?! "Scarab, that's not-"

Before he could stumble out some feeble attempt at chastising her, General Shepherd cut him off with a barking laugh. Since when did this guy ever laugh? "You're stubborn, I'll give you that, Private. I'll play your game this time. Tell me, do you know why, even if I had the opportunity and means to get rid of this note, it couldn't have been me?"

"No. Why?"

"Because, believe it or not, Sergeant Brandy's father is close friend of mine. Why would I erase the final words of my friend's only son?" General Shepherd was barely taller than Scarab, yet in this moment he felt as though he towered over her. "So, even though I had the opportunity, I had no reason to do so. Your theory falls short."

Amazingly, Scarab actually smiled. "You got me there, sir. You're right. I don't know why."

Everyone in the 141 was crazy... Roach was sure of it now. "I'm sure the General has things to do, Scarab. Let's go."

Thank god, she came willingly. Neither of them seemed even remotely bothered by the interaction either. How was it that she got away with labeling Shepherd a traitor and then pushing that button again?

It just didn't make sense.

"Scarab, are you crazy?" Roach questioned.

"Maybe I am. I'm in a weird predicament, Roach." Scarab rubbed her chin in thought. "I know I was severely sleep deprived at the time, but I can't shake the possibility that the suicide note existed. It felt real enough. There's no proof that it wasn't there. He said he was smoking when he heard the gun shot, so in theory, he could've burned it, but there's no way of confirming that. Plus, I don't have a motive that I can prove either."

Roach groaned. How the hell could he talk this much crazy down? She was talking like someone out of an Ace Attorney game. The difference was that this wasn't one of those outlandish cases. "You know, there's a good reason they don't make cases on based on speculation."

"This isn't speculation. I saw that note," Scarab insisted. "It's just... I'm the only one who did apparently."

Ordinarily, the rational argument would have been that if the note had been touched in any way, it would've appeared on the security footage. The camera in the armory snapped photos with a motion sensor every half minute it catches movement. He heard from Ghost that while there were three photos of Brandy breaking into the room, walking around, and loading the gun, there were no photos after that. When he shot himself, blood got on the sensor and the camera stopped snapping pictures. "If, and this is a very strong if, he did leave a note, he would've had to have placed that within thirty seconds of his death because it's not shown on the security footage either."

"For a two page note? That'd suggest premeditation." She pressed her lips into a thin line.

"Yes, if there _was_ a note," Roach retorted. "My point is there's no proof that it existed. It's only your word. You might not want to admit it, but the easiest and most likely answer is that you imagined it."

Scarab scoffed. "It's the easiest solution for everyone else."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the summary of the chapters this one came from don't make it clear enough, the source material some special kinda cursed content. I don't know what Younger Me was thinking, but in Plan B Chapter 16, I introduced a plot device called a mind probe. You plug a fucking wire on someone's head and then you can view and delete memories (and later do some coding so someone can have PTSD triggers, apparently). To my own credit, the characters do get a lot of mileage out of this stupid thing. It's kinda laughable, tbh.  
> The plot device was stupid though, so I've been sitting here for three chapters scratching my head trying to write it out. Ultimately, it really does come down to extreme exhaustion being the answer. It's interesting how this chapter ends up mirroring the source material, specifically with how Scarab was supposed to fall unconscious upon losing memories and wake up back on base with no recollection of her earlier freak out. That became Doc's sleep pill.  
> However, since Scarab's supposed to end up remembering anyways, in this case it's a matter of her simply not dropping the issue.


	9. On a Crazy Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapter 17
> 
> 17\. Medic tends to her. Nobody believes Shepherd shot her. Shepherd hallucinations. Everybody's going on a mission without her. Scarab's suddenly in the interrogation room.

Scarab was on a mission, and Heatstroke, for better or for worse, was along for the ride. Let's rewind and touch base on how exactly she managed to get dragged into this fine mess. It was on the day off that Shepherd gave the company that Scarab approached her and pointedly asked, "Riley, you were there before Shepherd. Do you remember seeing a note on the counter?"

Heatstroke was taken so thoroughly off guard by the question that she slapped her laptop shut. _Sorry, dad._ "What?"

"The note. Did you see it? You're the only other person who can confirm that it was there."

Ghost had already asked her this while she was being held up in the infirmary, and she assumed that it'd be the last time she would need to answer it. Assumptions were like assholes. "I don't know. I wasn't looking at the counter top at the time."

"So it could've been there," Scarab said.

With one weary glance from her friend to the sticky notes littered on the wall, Heatstroke gave a noncommittal shrug. "I guess, but I thought that you gave up on the note idea, Alex."

Scarab crossed her arms, her fingers tapping against the inside of her elbow. "I second guessed it, sure, but just because other people are telling me it wasn't there doesn't mean it wasn't real. Besides, I don't think the councilor would've cleared me if I kept insisting that it was. I can't investigate if I'm confined to quarters."

As much as Heatstroke didn't like it, she knew exactly where this was going. Her shoulders sagged as weariness sank in. "Ghost already closed the investigation. I don't think they'll let you touch this with a fifty foot pole."

"They probably won't let me review any of the data, sure. But there's gotta be something." Scarab took to pacing the small living quarters as she continued, "When I talked to Shepherd, he said some things."

"You _talked_ to General Shepherd?" Heatstroke questioned, "When was this?"

"After his speech. Just hang on a sec." Turning on her heels, she made her way back towards the door. "He said that even if he had the opportunity and means to get rid of the note, that he had no reason to because he's friends with Brandy's dad. Specifically, he added in _means_ , even though I only mentioned that he had the opportunity. By saying that, he's acknowledging that there was a way for him to do it."

Heatstroke laid back at that point and stared at the ceiling. It seemed she'd need to play soundboard while Scarab went on this tangent... "And there's a way you could've done it. Hell, I could've gotten rid of it too, technically. I didn't, but nobody checked me for it and I was taken straight to the infirmary."

"It's a locked room mystery, in a way. That note couldn't leave the room or else the security camera in the hall would've been able to capture it. And you're not a suspect because if you did actually go into the room, those same cameras would've proved it and you would've been questioned a lot more than you were. Even if I can't see the pictures themselves, the way everyone's reacting to them is telling."

This girl liked her mystery novels and crime shows a little too much. As great as being able to put herself in the mindset of solving an escape room was in some circumstances, this wasn't an episode of CSI. "You sure you're not overthinking this one?"

"I think everyone's _under-thinking_ it, Riley. I'm sure he burned the note. He said he was smoking, so whatever ash he got on him from burning the paper and discarding the rest could be overlooked."

Heatstroke rolled her eyes. "Didn't he also say that he had no reason to do it because he and Brandy's dad are close? It'd be pretty shitty if he torched his friend's kid's suicide note."

"All that means is that he needed a really good reason to do it," Scarab retorted. "If Brandy wrote something that would've ruined that friendship Shepherd had with his dad, then maybe he'd want to get rid of it. By giving that much information, he gave a reason why he'd do it."

"Didn't realize today was opposite day."

"I'm being serious." Scarab huffed and paced a little faster. "If we're going to gather more intel, we need to find some sources. Ghost handled the investigation, so odds are he shared what he found with the Captain. Roach also seemed to know a bit about the security footage when I talked with him earlier, so if I had to guess then he probably helped at some point. Royce is third in the chain of command, so it's possible he's been informed on a few things. Doc might be able to tell us about how Brandy was doing that day, if he and General Shepherd came into contact or anything."

Heatstroke's forehead creased. She already knew the answer as she saw them talking that evening in the infirmary. So in terms of contact, it was there. If she told Scarab though, she had no idea what sort of bomb she'd be setting off. "That's assuming anyone's willing to divulge that information. Odds are, they won't want to talk to you about the investigation."

"I know. And that's why I need your help, Riley."

Reflexively, Heatstroke sat up and looked at her. "My help?"

"Yeah. They won't talk to me. So I need someone they'll be willing to talk to." Scarab smiled. "And you're as cute as a button, so I doubt they'll want to let you down if you just ask nicely."

Like it or not, Heatstroke's face burned from her words. "You really think so?"

"I know so. You and Ghost get along super well, so maybe he has a soft spot for you."

Immediately, the bashfulness that torched Heatstroke's cheeks dampened. Of all people, Scarab thought that Ghost would be attracted to her? Ghost, the guy who didn't seem to like _anybody_? The only person who Scarab could've said that would've been a bigger stretch was Roach - the man was pretty open with his preferences and she didn't exactly have the equipment.

Heatstroke only met the notion with an awkward chuckle. "Yeah, maybe not."

"Don't be modest, of course he does," Scarab insisted. "I'd bet he'd be willing to tell you a lot if you butter him up first."

Somehow that led to Heatstroke in her current situation, side by side with Ghost doing target practice on the range. He was training with an M9, not that he needed to. His aim was remarkable. Even she, a distinguished sniper in her own right, paused to admire the skill he displayed.

Magazine emptied, Ghost set the fire arm down. "Something's on your mind."

Firing the last few rounds, Heatstroke lowered her weapon and tittered uneasily. "What makes you say that?"

He pointed down range to her target. Several of the holes had listed out further and further from the center. Heatstroke's heart dropped. She prided herself on her accuracy. This was a pitiful display, easily mistakable for an amateur.

"I know you're better than that, so why the mess up?"

Unconsciously, she toyed with the rim of her goggles. It wasn't like she agreed to help Scarab on this bizarre quest of hers. If anything, she wanted nothing more than for it to drop. Scarab's position was turbulent at the moment though, and if the higher ups knew she was investigating without authorization to do so, it could land her in a heap of trouble. Job be damned, the only way Scarab was going to let this witch hunt go was if she was suitably convinced that she was mistaken. With how this was going, the only ways to do that were to either let her investigate until something suitably proved Shepherd's innocence or Heatstroke got help breaking this down to her.

Ghost leaned against the stall's frame. "Is it something you don't feel comfortable discussing with me as your superior officer?"

Scarab may be willing to stake her career on this, but Heatstroke didn't share her passion for this cause. She didn't get here by covering for people. If anyone could help, Ghost did seem like her best bet. "It's not that. You're right, I'm uneasy. Scarab's still focusing on whether or not that note of hers existed. I don't know what to do."

Behind his sunglasses, his brow arched. "Yeah, I heard about as much from Roach. Did she say anything especially alarming or dangerous?"

"Besides still suggesting that General Shepherd got rid of the note?" Heatstroke sighed, bringing about the acidic taste of gun smoke over her tongue. "I don't think so, but she's probably being careful to avoid trouble this time."

"Hmm. So she'll being trying not step out of line. Blatantly at least."

"Right. She wanted my help gathering information on what the investigation turned up. She knows nobody will tell her, so she thought I'd have better luck."

Ghost tipped his head. "She's smart, I'll give her that. I'm sure if we were able to turn this attention on something productive, then she could get a lot done."

"The only way she's gonna let this go is if she's made to understand how unlikely this actually is," Heatstroke said. "I'm... really betraying her trust right now, but Ghost, I'm stuck. As long as I don't have the facts to dispute her theories, I can't stop her. You handled the investigation, so maybe you could talk to her?"

"You want me to sit her down and chat?" Ghost's expression was hidden away, his eyes unreadable. "She's not owed an explanation."

"I know..."

He stood up straight and rolled his shoulders back, bringing about a couple of faint pops. "It'll be a pain trying to justify it to MacTavish, but I'll see what I can do."

The nerves settled in her chest as she clapped her hands together. "Really? I- wow. Thanks, Ghost!"

In the back of her mind, Scarab's earlier remark echoed. Even now, having been granted this huge favor, Heatstroke couldn't disagree more. This wasn't a man with a soft spot for her, let alone some unprofessed attraction. But maybe, just maybe, she underestimated how nice Ghost could be.

\--- --- ---

Shepherd was finally gone, but that didn't mean that anyone was going to be allowed to rest any time soon. The morning before the General left, his parting words to MacTavish were, "I'm heading out to Fire Base Phoenix. Now that we've eliminated the supply train, we should look into where it was going. I want you to assemble a team and meet me in Afghanistan. We'll discuss it further there."

They had two days before they'd need to ship out for that. He had a very simple line up for it. Sixteen people. Whatever they'd have to deal with, it could be taken care of no issue. He had yet to tell them.

On his way to start giving his team the heads up, he just so happened to run into Scarab. He wouldn't have thought twice about it, except that she was in the armory. At this point, the room had been scrubbed clean and the lock was fixed, but seeing the way she looked around made him uneasy. "Scarab? Did you have something you needed to do in here?"

The woman froze and turned to look back at him. "Ha ha, hey, Captain. I just finished some target practice, so I was putting my weapon away."

Please. Her lie was shallower than a shot glass. If she were just returning a gun here after firing a few rounds, she would've had to clean it first. The cleaners and solvents they used were pretty strong smelling, so they were impossible to miss. There wasn't a whiff of that in the room. "I'm not up for playing games today. You wanna try that one again?"

Scarab huffed. "Alright... I was just taking a quick look around."

 _Surprise, surprise._ "I thought you said you weren't sure you saw that note."

"I wasn't. Can you forgive me for wanting to be sure?"

"At this point? You're starting to push your luck," MacTavish warned. "Nobody likes being wrong, but you have to call a quits somewhere."

"That's the thing though, I don't think I'm wrong on this one." Scarab rounded the counter and approached him. The look in her eyes wasn't like the dark, cold one he'd faced in her quarters. In fact, demeanor wise, she seemed totally normal. "I've been wrong before, but I've got a feeling that there's something seriously fucked up going on."

"It could just be a feeling, you know."

"Of course. What'd I expect? You still don't believe me. Nobody does."

MacTavish frowned. "Scarab, are you sure you're not being a wee bit paranoid?"

Instead of that icy glare he'd expected, he was met with a frustrated scoff. "I got some sleep, the councilor cleared me for duty. What'll it take to convince you that I'm not crazy?"

"Dropping this matter to start," he deadpanned.

Scarab scowled, the corner of her mouth quivering as she bit back, "I can't do that."

The only other person he could think of who willfully clawed back against orders like this was his former Captain. Even then, Price usually had a good reason. Scarab thought she did, but it was clearly misguided. "Brandy's death was already investigated. There's no evidence that the scene was tampered with. This incident is closed."

"But, Captain-!"

"Scarab, drop it! That's an order." He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but he couldn't keep tolerating these outbursts from her. MacTavish took a deep breath. "You were cleared for duty, so get to your actual duties. Do I make myself clear?"

His jump to pulling rank did two things: the anger drained from Scarab's face and it was replaced with shock. Her mouth tightened into a flat line as she gave a stiff nod and fled the armory. Once she vanished around the corner, he massaged his nose with a couple of fingers and went the opposite direction.

It wasn't how he wanted to handle this situation, but her persistence afforded him zero alternatives. In fact, these disputes they'd been having over this imaginary note probably also fixed his first problem with her interest in him. No way in hell would she want to snuggle up to him now that he did this. He'd meant to let her down easy, but now it seemed he'd be stuck with awkwardness around her.

Still a better solution than the "I'm gay" excuse, he decided.

Cold as it was, MacTavish decided to go on with his day as if that dispute never happened. He rounded up the team he planned to bring and gave them a very, very small briefing on the situation, as far as they knew at this point. They were a good lot, pretty eager to fly into this new assignment if Rook and Meat's loud enthusiasm was any indication.

When he dismissed everyone, only two people stuck behind. Ghost and Heatstroke. MacTavish shut his laptop and slipped it under his arm. "Did you need something?"

Heatstroke seemed anxious, for one reason or another. Not a good sign. When it was clear she wasn't about to start this conversation, Ghost replied, "Actually, Heatstroke here-" he clapped a hand on the short woman's shoulder, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin "-wanted to know if you'd let me share the Brandy investigation findings with Scarab."

MacTavish processed and double processed Ghost's words, and then a third time for good measure. Once he was certain that he didn't mishear him, MacTavish succinctly responded with "Why?"

"Because we think that the best way to get Scarab to drop the issue is if we sit her down and explain things from a more factual perspective." Ghost took his hand back and continued, "That, and if we give her something way more pressing to focus on, maybe we can keep her off the problem."

Why the bleeding hell didn't they come to him with this sooner? Maybe he wouldn't have had to throw his weight around if this had been an option. He cleared his throat. "I... don't think that's necessary at this point."

Ghost's brows furrowed. "Why's that?"

"I gave her orders earlier today to drop the subject," MacTavish explained.

"So that's why..." Heatstroke murmured. "Captain, I don't think that'll stop her. I encountered her before I came here and she was drawing out a map of the armory. She's not dropping it."

That's how it was? MacTavish was more stunned than angry. Actually, in a backwards way, he was a little impressed. She had stones if she was going to keep this up. "If that's how it's going to be, then I think we'll need to kick this up a couple more notches than a simple talk. Clearly she doesn't see anything wrong with her conduct."

"What do you have in mind?" Ghost asked.

"We'll give her a little scare."

\--- --- ---

Ghost collected the investigation files, even picked up Scarab's for good measure. He looked up over the desk at MacTavish. Of all the solutions, he never expected this from him.

"Are you sure about this, mate?"

"I am. If you're not comfortable doing it, I could ask for someone else to step in."

Glancing back down at the files in his hands, he couldn't deny that he was tempted to take him up on the offer. He shook his head. "I can handle it."

"Good luck then." MacTavish leaned over the desk and kissed him through his balaclava. It was sweet, and about as drawn out as you can get with a barrier of fabric in the way. "I owe you big time for this."

"We'll talk when this is wrapped up," Ghost told him and left. They had a room prepared for this, an old, unused office that saw very little foot traffic. Better to keep this away from prying eyes and ears.

When he reached the office, out came a short, fully geared figure. As the door shut behind them, Ghost met their gaze. With one tug, the black balaclava came off and Heatstroke went straight to fixing her bun. "She's ready for you..."

Ghost took in the poorly contained worry on her face as she released her kinky, blonde hair from its tie and went straight to twisting it back up. "You don't need to stick around at this point. I'm sure you got plenty to do."

The tie gave a small snap as it sprang taut. Heatstroke nodded. "Don't be too rough on her, alright?"

"She'll be fine." Ghost waved her off and stepped into the room. Inside was a table with a couple of chairs, and in one was Scarab. Her wrist was handcuffed to the armrest. Now, in all seriousness, that handcuff wasn't going to do all that much since the chair wasn't bolted to the floor and her other hand was free, but actual restraint wasn't the aim here. That handcuff was a message more than anything.

Scarab whipped her head around as soon as the door clicked shut, and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "G-Ghost..."

He was grateful for his mask and sunglasses. The less she could read him right now, the better. Ghost set the stack of files on the table. "Let's have a _chat_ , Scarab."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... This is an extra special kinda strange. In Plan B, Scarab doesn't get started on investigating like she does here. What she does get is a hallucination that Shepherd's about to shoot Heatstroke on the range, so she tackles Heatstroke and there's a lot of confusion. She then gets another hallucination of Shepherd being a creep by her ear and saying "Yo so I can, like, make you think that I'mma kill your friends and you can't do shit about it." She then gets into a convo with Soap, who more or less straight up tells her that everybody's got a mission to wherever the fuck but she's "Not Invited (tm)" and she freaks out because "OMG Shepherd's trying to get me alone so he can kill me!!" At this point, Soap is thoroughly convinced she's paranoid and that he might've lost several brain cells. Shepherd then orders Ghost to fix the problem with the mind probe.
> 
> Now, because that all sounds absolutely stupid and I stubbornly refused to write any of this from Scarab's perspective (read Plan B for her account of all this), all the hallucinations got replaced with her obsessing over the note she swears up and down that she saw. There was supposed to be a lot more investigating on her part, but there's only so much she can get away with.  
> So a different funny bit from Plan B (and a bit of a long haul one that progresses through the whole fic) was that Heatstroke and Ghost are supposed to get interested in each other. Since Ghost is with Soap, that's obviously not going to be a thing. Still, I'm giving the original fic a nod by having Scarab reference a nonexistent attraction to Heatstroke.  
> Another fun part about this, technically the reveal that Ghost is gonna pull an interrogation on Scarab wasn't something that would come until the next chapter. I liked the idea more of him stepping into the room as Roundabout softly starts up in the background and he drops his one liner.
> 
> Fortunately, the "Scarab is Obsessed" arc will be wrapping up in a couple of chapters.


	10. Occum's Hole Puncher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 18 and 19
> 
> 18\. Ghost is here to interrogate Scarab via mind skimmer. Sees her memories, realizes she was right. Shepherd bursts in to do clear up. Neither remember this bullshit. [Rewrite completely so it's a basic interrogation]  
> 19\. Shepherd's cleaning house. Gets to Soap, spills the beans, deletes memories. [REDACTED]

"Let's have a _chat_ , Scarab."

This wasn't a real interrogation. As far as weight goes, this was getting marked down as an NJP on Scarab's paperwork, less so for conspiracy and more so for disobeying a direct order. She was getting off easy, as far as Ghost was concerned. For that, he wanted to make sure this act of his that he put on was as convincing as possible.

After the initial shock, Scarab found the bravery to ask, "What's this about, Ghost?"

Ghost planted one boot on the seat of the empty chair and leaned on his leg. "You tell me. Why do you think you're here right now?"

"I stopped looking into Brandy's death. This is not necessary." She lifted her hand, but the handcuff stopped her after some centimeters.

"A little bird told me otherwise. Best you not lie to me, I have eyes and ears on all corners of this base." He flipped her file open on the table. "From what I heard, our Captain gave you a direct order to drop the issue, and you disobeyed that. Does that sound about right?"

Scarab turned her attention to her pants. "Yes."

"Now Scarab, you listen good. You and I are gonna brush up on the facts uncovered by the investigation. Understood?"

She gave a curt nod.

"Brandy broke into the armory to get his hands on a pistol. He shot himself. The shot woke up half the people in the barracks, and you happened to get there first. Care to explain what you did while in that room?"

"I found the body, and quickly looked around for clues. That's when I saw the note. I didn't get a chance to read it, since I left right away to get Captain MacTavish." Scarab thumbed at the handcuff. "That's it. I didn't touch anything. I think I was only in there a minute tops."

"Do you remember there being any other papers on the counter?" Ghost asked.

There was a short pause before she reluctantly admitted, "There were."

"Then what made you think that the papers you saw were Brandy's suicide note?"

"..."

"Surely something made you think you saw it, right?"

Scarab sighed heavily. "I was tired at the time, Ghost. I don't remember why I thought I saw his suicide note, just that I thought I did. I was sure of it."

In terms of details, this sounded crucial if he wanted to crack her suspicions. If he could ride this line of questioning out, maybe that's all it'd take to get her to give up. "Your basis for doing all of this is that you thought you saw a note that mysteriously vanished sometime between you showing up on the scene and me getting there. Correct?"

"That's right."

"Alright. I'll put a pin in this and we'll address it later. You went and got MacTavish. In that time between you leaving and coming back, Heatstroke came on the scene. She fainted just outside the room, and never set foot inside the armory. Then the General was next to the scene where he found Heatstroke unconscious and Brandy dead. He claims that he entered the room to investigate before going back out into the hallway to aid Heatstroke. Shortly thereafter, Royce, Roach, and Meat came on the scene along with several other operators before you returned with MacTavish." Ghost rested his arm on his knee and continued, "The gunshot happened at 23:58. How long do you think it took you to arrive at the scene in that time?"

"A minute, two at most. The barracks aren't far from the armory and I was just outside, so I sprinted over," Scarab answered.

"Then we'll say you came on the scene at about midnight. You left within a minute of finding the scene. How long did it take you to run and get MacTavish?"

Scarab considered the question for several seconds. "I think it was about seven or eight minutes before I got him over there."

"That tracks. Heatstroke just barely missed you, according to the security camera in the hall. Two minutes after she got there, Shepherd arrived. While that sounds like he had a window of five minutes to get rid of a note, it's a lot less than that. Not only were the next people on the scene about three minutes after he was, but he was also in the room for two of those."

"Two minutes is plenty of time," Scarab remarked.

Ghost snorted. "I'd agree with you if it weren't for the wrinkle that this suicide note you described was apparently two pages. He would've needed to read the note before he decided to dispose of it, right?"

Scarab lifted her head and glowered at him. "He could've skimmed it. If there was something that Brandy wrote in his note that could've ruined him, then he could've made the impulse decision to burn it."

"If." Ghost went ahead and counted off on his fingers: "If there was a note. If Brandy wrote something nasty. If Shepherd skimmed it. If he burned it. Are you starting to see the problem here?"

"It's all I got to work with!" She snapped.

Before she could get on a tirade, Ghost kicked the metal folding chair over. The resounding clatter was more than enough to shut her up. "Don't raise your voice at me. I think I'm being pretty bloody reasonable right now. You've got a brain, so do me a favor and _use it_. Your entire argument is composed of assumptions."

Scarab grit her teeth and punched at the arm of the chair. Amazingly, she reeled her tone back from openly hostile to poorly contained aggression. "You're not giving me the chance to defend my reasoning."

Maybe he misjudged her. Maybe this entire thing was one big temper tantrum because nobody wanted to hear her outlandish theory. Ghost crossed his arms. "You want the chance to defend it to me? Fine. Give it your best shot."

Judging by the way she shrunk in that chair somewhat, she clearly didn't expect to get this far. "Alright. Well, first off, there had to be some reason I remember seeing that note. I think it had to be there."

He didn't expect to be back on this so soon, but it seemed she wanted to cover that. "You think so. Isn't it also true that you were also extremely sleep deprived at the time?"

"I was. You're gonna use that to cast doubt on my account. I saw it though, I know I did. Why the hell would I remember clearly seeing it?"

"Clearly? You don't though. You can't tell me why you thought you saw a suicide note, and you want to know why?" Ghost went ahead and picked back up the chair, snapping it open and setting it back where it was. "One side effect of extreme sleep deprivation is hallucinations. I can tell you from first hand experience that your brain's the biggest arsehole you can deal with."

"It could've been real," Scarab denied. "You don't know if I was hallucinating."

Ghost sighed, took a seat, and picked through Scarab's file. From it, he slipped Brandy's assessment out and laid it in front of her. "Hate to break it to you, but I do. Brandy was the one primarily taking care of you and he detailed several instances where you responded to sounds and voices that just weren't there, or completely misidentified him as someone or something else."

Scarab picked up the file with her free hand, her eyes flicking over the document and widening with increasing alarm. "B-but..."

"It's not what you want to hear, but that's just how it is," Ghost said. "It's entirely plausible that you thought you saw that note in the moment."

"This... this just isn't fair." Scarab dropped the file on the table and shook her head. "So now it's okay for you to assume shit?"

Ghost had to process that one. In some reversed, backwards logic, he supposed she did have a point. He did just tear into her for making assumptions, and his single argument against her so far was based on an assumption as well. Just as it was plausible for her to hallucinate and think she saw the note, it was also a possibility that she did genuinely see something that looked like Brandy's suicide note. It wasn't his fault though that she jumped straight to the only point that forced him to make such an assumption.

"You said there had to be a reason you remembered seeing that note. I'm merely pointing out that there could have been a different reason." Ghost folded his hands on the desk. "But, go on. What's your argument for Shepherd getting rid of the note? I want to hear exactly how and why this would happen."

Scarab narrowed her eyes at him. Clearly she knew he was talking her into a corner with this. "Fine. Here's my theory. Brandy and Shepherd seemed friendly on the surface, but something went down between them. Brandy's final act was an attempt to disparage the General's character in some way, by siting him as the cause for his suicide. Shepherd wouldn't need to read the full note. In those two minutes, he could have seen and read the most damning parts and burned it. With it gone, he could pretend it never existed."

"And what, pray tell, could Brandy possibly write that'd make him act that irrationally?" Ghost questioned.

"I don't know. Some crazy dark secret? Maybe Shepherd's some power hungry extremist and had an agenda that Brandy wanted to stop at all costs."

"By taking his own life?"

"Maybe he couldn't bring himself to confront him head on because Shepherd's like family, but still wanted to do the right thing."

Again, there was that thread of logic that he could see her following. "The only thing I have to say on that is that the General was the last person to speak with Brandy, however it was a trip to the infirmary."

"That could've been the trigger," Scarab asserted.

"Could have, if your theory held water." Ghost decided to move on to her next point. "There's a bigger issue here than you accounted for though. I don't know if you were made aware of this, but blood spatter covered the motion sensor of the armory's camera. Because of that, we only got photos of the room up to within thirty seconds of his death. In all those photos, no new papers are added to counter."

"He could've taken the note out of his pocket just before he killed himself."

"Even if that were true, there's an issue. Neither you nor Shepherd knew about the lack of security footage past Brandy's death. That was something we didn't learn until we reviewed it the following day and discovered it hadn't been taking any pictures since. At the time, Shepherd thought that the camera was functioning. Why would he even so much as pick up the note if he thought that he would've been seen?"

"He could've planned on covering it up and realized he didn't need to. It's not hard to have those photos deleted," Scarab retorted.

Props for tenacity. "Essentially, you're proposing that he burned the note, realizing that it could leave a trail, and then planned on just deleting the evidence later? Scarab, no offense, but let's think about what would've happened if blood hadn't gotten on that sensor and the note was there. Not only would Shepherd be caught burning the note, but we would've had photographic evidence that it existed from when you and Heatstroke both appeared before he did. He would've had to delete every picture up to before Brandy put it out. As soon as we checked that the camera worked fine and was snapping pictures like normal, we'd know that there was something being covered up. There's no way the General would do something that blatantly obvious."

Once he said this, Scarab clenched her hands and stewed. She didn't have an answer to that, clearly. Not a good one anyways. If she wanted to push her argument, then it became a question of sheer dumb luck. Shepherd couldn't have predicted anything, so they needed to assume that he would've acted in a way that made sense for someone without all the facts they had. Shepherd had to know where the camera was and how it worked as he received a tour of the base that day.

"...What if he placed that blood so that the camera appeared to have gotten hit by blood spatter?" Scarab finally responded.

... Somehow, someway, she was still gonna argue this. Ghost heaved a sighed. "Where the spatter is on the wall and the camera lines up with the exit wound. So, no. I doubt he planted that blood."

"But could he have?"

Technically speaking, yes, but Ghost wasn't about to let her yank this argument another direction. "If he dabbed the blood on, it would've left an impression of either his skin, cloth, or whatever material he used to do that. If he flicked the blood, it'd make a secondary spatter and it wouldn't necessarily hit the sensor. So no. Probably not. Remarkable as it is, the initial blood spatter did just happen to hit the sensor."

Scarab sighed heavily and sank in the seat. "Alright... I give up. I can't explain it. My theory's reliant on guesswork and some stupid amount of luck to make sense."

Finally... Fucking. Finally. Ghost took off his sunglasses and nursed the steady throbbing behind his eyes. "I'll be honest with you, I could care less whether or not you like the General. But if you plan on pulling this bollocks again, you'd better have a watertight case to back it up."

"Understood." Scarab lightly tugged at the handcuffs again. "We done here?"

"About. Just so you know, this isn't on record as anything more than an NJP. Don't discuss this with anyone." Ghost stood up and went to undo the handcuffs when he realized with an indescribable amount of shame that he never got the key from Heatstroke. He forgot to ask.

Well. This was awkward.

Scarab noticed his pause and sat back up. "What's the matter?"

Oh yeah. They should've thought this one through. "Eh heh heh heh... Funny story. I don't have the key..."

...

... "You're kidding..."

"I'm not..." Ghost rubbed the back of his head. "You know, just sit tight. I'm gonna get them. I'll be right back." With that he retreated from the office and made a mad dash to find Heatstroke.

It must've been ten minutes before he did eventually come across her in the gym with Meat. As one can expect, she was no longer in full gear, having changed into a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top. She turned her uniform pockets inside out in the locker room, swearing up and down that she put it somewhere. When nothing turned up, they were left in dumb silence.

In a weird stroke of negligence, Scarab was locked to a chair in an office and it'd take hours to search for the tactical vest Heatstroke was wearing to find that key. Especially since Heatstroke wasn't totally sure anymore what pocket she put them in. Honestly, it was comical, and Ghost struggled mask the amusement in his tone.

"Mind if I borrow a couple of bobby pins?" Ghost asked.

Heatstroke nodded and picked a couple from her bun, which instantly loosened with the loss of support. "Don't tell her I forgot..."

"I don't think she knows, mate. Don't worry about it." Ghost rushed back to the office. Sure enough, Scarab was still there vegetating. He avoided eye contact while fumbling around with the lock.

This fumbling continued for a lot longer than he cared to admit. It got to the point where Scarab bitterly asked, "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

Ghost glared at the stubborn lock. He was pretty sure he was doing this right. This wouldn't be the first time he'd been asked to pick a pair of standard issue handcuffs. He wasn't totally sure why this wasn't working. "The lock's just being tricky." Just as he said this, the bobby pin snapped in half. "Well, fuck."

Scarab clicked her tongue and her cheeks strained with a tight, fake smile. "Nice work."

At this point, he was tempted to give up and get the bolt cutters. These stupid things weren't unlatching. Hell, now there was a piece of metal stuck in the lock and he was pretty sure it wasn't coming out with any persuasion. He'd figure this out. Somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing how much Shepherd was allowed to bungle things in Plan B on account of him having this bullshit plot device that made cover up work hassle free.  
> I will say, this is probably going to be the most changes that I do to any single arc of the story solely because of how off the rails it goes before everything suddenly becoming relatively normal again. From here on, we start to follow the narrative of Plan B a little more closely again.
> 
> When I was outlining Plan B on paper so we could shuffle Plan B's tiny chapters together into longer ones, I had three full pages worth of notes written out. We're one chapter away from hitting the bottom of the first page and I'm hype. We're about a third of the way in!


	11. Sendmeonmyway Onmahway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 20, 21, and 22
> 
> 20\. Scarab morning dead dad. Soap talks to her about grief, more bad backstory. Shepherd sends Scarab and Heatstroke on a bullshit mission, they leave.  
> 21\. They go to wherever for that intel. Soap and Roach have a smoke.  
> 22\. Lockpicking hijinx. Heatstroke does Scarab's job. Price has a weird chapter.

**Fire Base Phoenix, Afghanistan**

Ghost wasn't kidding when he mentioned giving Scarab shit to do. Much to MacTavish's astonishment, the lieutenant pushed as far as insisting they take her along on this stint in Afghanistan. His logic was simple: Get her off the base and away from all that shit so she has other shit to think about. Simple enough. From what MacTavish saw in Azerbaijan, she could handle herself on missions alright.

The base itself was chalk full of Rangers, many of whom gawked at them as they rolled in. It was enough to get Roach to uneasily shuffle closer to their group and awkwardly ask, "Why're they staring at us?"

MacTavish stifled a chuckle. "We're an elite task force."

Beside him, Ghost snorted. "No offense, mate, but I think it's because we look bloody ridiculous."

Or that. It could- no, it definitely was that. They'd hit a point of elite where they didn't conform to regulations. In the most obvious way, uniforms weren't as strictly enforced. That's all well and good on base, where it's just them there 99% of the time, but here they stuck out. A number of them were only in half the desert uniform and not dressed to the nines with their gear. Compared to these guys in their ACUs, they looked unprofessional.

Tack on the fact that Ghost was still wearing his usual skull balaclava in this heat, MacTavish himself was sporting a mohawk, and they had two women in tow where there didn't seem to be one in sight. Back in his SAS days, when he had a lot less freedom to let his hair grow how he wanted it, MacTavish probably would've been thrown for a loop too.

This was awkward.

He banished this to the mental filing cabinet of stupid things to fuss over at 3 in the morning and led his men to the briefing room so Shepherd could fill them in on what was going on. With a grand total of eighteen people, the room was cramped and quickly became balmy with everyone's combined body heat. The little oscillating fan continued its futile mission to combat the heat in the corner.

They were stuck waiting there for bordering on a half an hour. In that time, amazingly, Ghost actually pushed his balaclava up to free his nose and mouth. The lower half of his face gleamed with sweat and one corner of his mouth twisted down as he continued to tap his fingers in the crook of his arm.

By the time Shepherd arrived, the General gave pause when he was clearly hit with that rush of heat that'd been building in the room. "You know there's a window."

"We tried it. It's stuck pretty good," MacTavish explained.

Shepherd made a point of propping the door to get a little bit of air circulation in and went on with business. Apparently, whatever he needed from them wasn't so confidential that he'd be concerned about prying eyes or ears. Always a good sign. He apologized for being late (apparently some accident happened with training the local militia) and moved on to reestablish the facts for everyone concerning the weapons cache, arms dealers, and oodles of fun they'd been having trying to track enemy assets down.

"We're still working on it, but it's been narrowed down to nine locations." Shepherd pulled up a map with a cluster of buildings in the nearby city individually circled. "They're scattered throughout the Red Zone, and if we hit one and get it wrong then we run the risk of our target destroying valuable intel."

This sounded way more elaborate than something he'd bring eighteen men for. MacTavish crossed his arms and reiterated, "So you're saying we'll need to spread out and hit all these locations at once? That'd be two people for each location. You sure that's smart?"

"It's not ideal," Shepherd agreed. "If I could, I'd pull more assets and give you back up, but as it stands, I'm dead locked with people who think the problem got solved in Azerbaijan."

Ah, so there was the real problem. No love from the top of the ladder.

They proceeded to go ahead and iron out plans from there: who was with who and going where and what have you. Nine teams of two, and once a place was cleared then the team would move to assist the nearest team that had yet to clear their location. This would create a domino effect where they'd hit everything simultaneously and weed out the dead ends so that they could move wherever needed.

The game was set and the operation would commence the following day. Before they were allowed to leave, Shepherd had one last thing he wanted to bring up. "I'm having everyone run The Pit to pull a new member for the Task Force. Since you're here, do you want to show them the performance I expect out of them?"

Ghost had yet to pull his mask back down, so his smirk was on full display. "What's the standing record?"

"29.45 seconds," Shepherd replied.

Lord only knows how Ghost managed to look more sinister without that skeleton grin. " _Lovely_." He said nothing else and pulled his mask back down over his features.

Did the lot of them proceed to embarrass these Rangers on their own course? Just a tad. Did MacTavish end up making a bet with Ghost whether the lieutenant could match or beat his record with an M9? Yes. He hadn't exactly expected Ghost to get within a couple hundredths of a second of his time while matching his accuracy with a pistol, but somehow the cheeky bastard pulled it off. He owed Ghost one "favor" to be determined later.

He was also met with the interesting discovering that Heatstroke was in some ways familiar with these guys. The man stuck running times and taking care of the firearms was some Corporal Dunn. Heatstroke gave pause at the entrance to The Pit and stammered through a greeting of, "Eli? Hey, um, how've you been?"

The Corporal clapped his jaw shut with such force that his teeth clacked. In an instant, he stopped leaning against the crates and fixed his posture. "Shoot, Riley! What're you doin' here?"

MacTavish and Ghost exchanged looks and shimmied towards the stairs as these two caught up. Neither of them sounded upset to see each other, but something clearly went on between them at some point if all the start-stop ahem-uh-ums were any clue. They left The Pit and MacTavish asked quietly, "Do you think they...?"

Ghost gave a shallow nod. "They definitely did."

Small wonders. On that note, they split up to take care of things before the operation. Ghost mentioned double checking their weapon load out. MacTavish went to check on how Meat and Rook were doing with lorries too. For the most part, his men were being productive and getting ready. There was one person he didn't see around for a while, and that Scarab.

"Yeah, I dunno, Captain," Meat said from beneath the truck. "She's somewhere, I'm sure. Probably just wanted to be alone."

Maybe, just maybe, he'd regret this, but he decided to go find and check on her. Last thing they needed was one of their team unable to carry out the mission. Scarab ended up hanging around the firing range, observing rather than shooting. For the briefest of moments, MacTavish hesitated. He wasn't sure if he and her were okay after everything that happened, if she'd want to talk to him at all. If he could maintain a professional attitude, then it should be fine, but he wasn't fond of treating his men coldly. Mustering his courage, he approached.

"Hey, Scarab. How are you feeling about the mission tomorrow?"

She was propped against a post, but the moment he spoke up, her back stiffened. "I should be okay, Captain."

Her tone was off, fainter and less spirited than normal. He opted to do some gentle prodding. "And in general?"

Scarab pressed her lips and pulled a pair of dog tags from her pants pocket, tossing them his way. MacTavish caught them and briefly glanced them over.

MACEY  
ALEXANDER R  
918 34 6122 USN O+  
NO PREFERENCE

His heart sank. These weren't hers. If he had to guess, they were probably her father's. They were weathered from at least a couple decades of time, parts tarnished and some of the letters worn down as if repeatedly swiped over like a worry stone. "I'm sorry. Did you want to talk about it?"

Her answer was a half-hearted shrug.

Maybe he should've left things at that. Instead, he pressed the dog tags back in her hand. "Has it been a while?"

"Fifteen years today," she answered, closing her fingers tight around the pair of metal tags. "He had lung cancer for a while, since I was born pretty much. In hindsight, I know it was a matter of time before that caught up to him. He lived a lot longer than the doctors said he would. I didn't get what death was when I was ten though, so it was rough."

"He might've hung on for you," he guessed. In his head though, he was doing the mental math. Scarab had a stepmom, and if he had cancer since she was young, it was possible that her birth mother walked out due to the emotional or financial demand of caring for a baby and a seriously ill spouse. The stepmom was probably brought in as a way to ensure that someone would be around to care for her and the slightly older brother. In a lot of ways, it was sad. He couldn't imagine living like that. "I'm sure he's proud of you, wherever he is."

"Mhm..." Scarab returned the tags to her pocket. "Do you believe in heaven?"

It was a hard question. He wanted to say he did, after all, he was born and raised a Roman Catholic. Over the years though, he was hit with so many mixed messages that threw him between wanting to renounce his faith and attending a confession. "I think some of us have someone looking out for us."

"Captain?" Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

Did he say something wrong? "Aye?"

She sniffled and faced him with watery eyes. "Thanks."

\--- --- ---

The location Heatstroke and Scarab got assigned to was on the opposite side of the Red Zone. While Heatstroke drove them there, Scarab gave directions. Because they were the furthest away, it also meant that the operation couldn't kick off until they arrived to infiltrate the building. Heatstroke's nerves were rapid firing as she clutched the steering wheel.

"Take a left. The target building should be around this corner."

Heatstroke glanced into the rear view mirror to make sure the road was still clear before following through with the instruction. The place was deserted. Not a soul to be seen in this dusty city. Civilians had long since left the zone or hid deep in their homes. To think this used to be normal place with regular lives being played out was chilling.

 _I'm being stupid but..._ "Scarab? Do you feel like something's off?"

"Off?"

"Like this mission's about to kick South any minute?" Heatstroke elaborated.

Scarab hummed. "Nope. Can't say I do."

It was just her then. Good. She could chalk this up to the chaos that the base has been in and call it a day. This morning started so normally too with her writing an Email home to her folks. There was no way she should be feeling this anxious, not when the final words she wrote were simply _"Talk to you soon! <3"_

Once she parked the car, they got out, readied their weapons, and made their way down the street. The area continued to be dead silent. It was as dusty as knickknacks pulled from the old trunk in the attic. It hinted at a time when people walked these streets, when shops were open and kids might've run to the school building several blocks away. Several years from now, would life return to this ghost town? People were stubborn, but it was difficult to picture life picking up where it left off someday. The building itself was a bunch of offices. She couldn't read Dari, let alone speak it, but what was left of the chipped away lettering suggested a law firm in her mind.

"This is India 1, we're in position outside Building 9," she informed over the comms. "We're ready when you are, boys."

Ghost responded, _"Roger. Alpha team's in position. All callsigns, confirm."_ This was followed by a chorus of confirmations from the other teams.

 _"Ignis copies all,"_ Command answered. _"141, you're clear to engage the target buildings."_

Heatstroke reached for the knob and gave it a testing wobble that ultimately became a simple turn as it ended up being unlocked. Slowly, she slipped the door open and entered the main lobby with Scarab behind her. The first thing she noticed was the dirt tracked throughout the area. At one point of another, there was a heavy amount of foot traffic.

"Looks like someone's been through here with a dolly," Scarab noted, gesturing to few sets of wheel tracks that followed along one of the clearer paths.

The question was how long ago? Heatstroke passed the front desk and mailboxes, then led the way up the stairwell. At the landing, she paused. "Scarab, you smell that?"

"Yeah. Cigarette smoke."

"Someone's here. Stay sharp." Heatstroke continued up the stairs and with a great measure of caution, entered the second floor hallway. Her heart picked up faster. At the end of the hall was a man with his head wrapped in a shemagh and a lit cigarette in his hand. An AK-47 hung off his arm. His back was to them, his attention fixed on the window.

Scarab stepped in front of Heatstroke and drew her sidearm, a silenced Five Seven. "I've got him." On the next beat in the Corporal's chest, the man smacked his face into the window with a noisy thud and collapsed.

Much like a cat, Heatstroke bristled from the sound. Hopefully no one heard that. "We'll clear these rooms one by one. Nice and easy."

They proceeded down the hall, opening rooms and confirming that they were empty. Aside from the single man at the end of the hall, there was no sign of any other targets. It was possible that they encountered a scout. Their upturning did reward them with a single locked room. Heatstroke shot the lock on the wooden door.

"Watch the door. I'm checking this out."

Scarab nodded. "Go for it."

At around that time, Teams Alpha, Golf, Echo, and Charlie reported in that their buildings were deserted. Alpha would divert to Bravo Team's location, Charlie was headed towards Delta, Echo to Foxtrot, and Golf to Hotel... Them, Team India, remained alone.

Inside, Heatstroke came across a small weapons cache. "Ignis, this is India Team. We've found a small munitions cache. Nothing big, but it could be linked. I'm checking it out now."

Guns hung on the wall, and there were a few crates stacked on top of one another in the corner. Printed on the sides of those crates was a logo: a 51mm bullet with AWR on the casing. It seemed that the arms dealer train reached the station here. Heatstroke pulled out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the logo on the crates.

"India 1 confirming that these weapons are linked to those arms dealers. The logo on some of the crates match." Heatstroke turned and noticed an old fossil of a computer. "I'm looking for any records or intel written out."

_"Copy that, India 1. Do what you can."_

Scarab spoke from the doorway, "How much is in there?"

"Plenty," Heatstroke said, flipping the chair around and checking the console. From the looks of it, it must've died ages ago. It refused to power up, and even if it did the dust inside it would probably cause the whole thing to spontaneously combust. "The computer's trashed. I don't think I could get anything out of this without a floppy disk."

The desk drawers had nothing new to contribute either. A lot of them were empty and sad, with the single exception of one that was stuffed to the brim with packs of cigarettes. Probably the community smoke stash. There wasn't much else in the way of clues to be found.

Heatstroke readied her gun. "Alright, let's get out of here-"

On the last word, the loud booming of an explosion within a mile of their position cut in. Over the comms, Bravo Team reported, _"They rigged a thermal in floor above us! I don't know if this was a booby trap or if there's hostiles nearby."_

 _"Rook, are both of you alright?"_ MacTavish questioned.

The answer came with a series of coughs from Meat. _"We're still in one piece, Captain."_

 _"Find some place to hole up, we'll come to you."_ The Captain advised. _"ETA two minutes."_

Scarab and Heatstroke shared a look. Without needing to be told, Heatstroke chimed in. "This is India Team. We've just finished up here. We'll head your way." She returned to the hall with Scarab and they went down the stairs. That was when they made the unfortunate discovery that the lobby they'd come in from was now swarming with hostiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd be following Plan B more closely. I'm a liar. This has some very weird differences and things cut out that didn't need to be there. Don't worry, you don't miss much, but let's talk about these changes, shall we?  
> The biggest change was moving things to Afghanistan. I planned on starting the fic with this, but opted to do it later. They're here now partly because the 141 needs to flex on the Rangers with The Pit and also because the way that the mission gets described sounds like something inside the Red Zone at the beginning of the mission.  
> Soap and Scarab's conversation was pretty shitty originally. Scarab starts talking about her dad, Soap mentions how his brother's paralyzed from the waist down and his sister has been severely ill for a long time. Then Scarab goes on a tangent about her dead brother while Soap makes some highly inappropriate and insensitive remarks. I felt the need to rewrite it so that it wasn't terrible and remove some of the shitty backstory.  
> Plan B has the mission be just Scarab and Heatstroke. No particular reason for it. I elaborated more on what's going on while keeping the two isolated from everyone else for reasons.  
> Soap and Roach's smoke scene was not even 200 words of them wondering what Scarab and Heatstroke were up to on their mission. I cut it since it does literally nothing narrative wise besides pad the word length (Younger Me even admitted in the A/N that it was basically only for that).  
> When I wrote in the summary "Heatstroke does Scarab's job", that's referring to a detail on Scarab's original reference sheet. Her designation was a hacker while Heatstroke was a sniper. Amusingly though, I forgot my own reference sheet because whenever any sort of tech is involved, Scarab's never thrown at the problem in favor of Heatstroke or Ghost. Ultimately, for Plan A, I scrapped the designation entirely as placed her as a standard rifleman. She really never does ANYTHING that would nod to a specialization, aside from snipe one time and be super good at CQC.  
> Another piece of cut content is a scene where it's Price in the Gulag getting bullied by other prisoners and guards. It's stupid. The only detail of relevance is the off handed mention of his wife and son. He was supposed to get several other Gulag Scenes (TM), but they're also getting cut because, again, they don't do anything narrative wise.
> 
> Man, I really didn't think about how much I changed until I typed all this out.


	12. Hell in a Hand Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 23, 24, and 25
> 
> 23\. Scarab and Heatstroke are going to leave, encounter terrorists. Scarab remembers!! They make a get away. Scarab calls Soap. Shepherd cuts in, they walk, Soap remembers.  
> 24\. Heatstroke dies. Shepherd beats Soap up. "Unless..." and then erases memories. Scarab still escaping.  
> 25\. Makarov encounter. Shepherd is suddenly there too. Bit of a tussle. Shepherd doesn't confirm the kill, he and Makarov bicker like a married couple. Scarab calls Nikolai. Shepherd fakes a bear attack on Soap. Ghost is a concerned boyfriend.

There had to be about three dozen hostiles clogging the lobby; waiting for them to come down from the second floor. Heatstroke and Scarab had no way to leave the way they came, not without extreme difficulty. Like mice, the two of them sprang the trap. That tiny stock of weapons was just bait. All they could do was stand on either sides of the doorway, out of their line of sight.

One of the men in the mass of militia called out in a heavy accent, "Come out, Americans! Surrender or die!"

Heatstroke met Scarab's startled look with one of her own. That accent was a far cry from an Afghan native. It sounded Russian. These guys had help.

"We know you are there! Let's not play this game."

Scarab gripped her assault rifle like a vice. "What now?" Just outside, the voice swapped to Russian and barked out what sounded like orders.

"I'm thinking..." Heatstroke glanced up the stairs. It was true, they couldn't leave through the lobby. The only way they could go was up, but what then? The best they chance they had was to hold their ground until back up came,if back up came.

As if in slow motion, a flashbang sailed through the threshold.

_No...!_

The flashbang hit the edge of a step, and at the very same moment, Scarab jumped to her side of the doorway to push her against the wall. The room went white, and all sound was lost to a harsh ringing. Robbed of her sense of balance, she wobbled and probably would've fallen if she wasn't temporarily wedged between the wall and Scarab. Her hand was squeezed and pulled. Without any sight to rely on, she blindly followed as she was yanked along up the stairs.

Five steps later, her vision came back as a blurring afterimage of the flash grenade hitting the stairs, fading steadily to the dragging and uneven sight of her feet rushing. Her ears continued to ring. If she spoke, her words were lost to the temporary deafness.

Scarab turned into one of the rooms and kicked the door shut behind them. She let go of her hand to throw open the window. "We're gonna have to jump!"

Jump? It was only the second story, but all it'd take was a twisted ankle to doom them. For that reason, Heatstroke hesitated.

When she didn't follow her to the windowsill, Scarab snapped her head back. "What are you waiting for? They'll be here any second!"

Just outside the door, the voices of the enemy were approaching.

Fuck it!

Heatstroke hurried over and they both leaped from the window to the street below. She landed and rolled on the asphalt, got up and grabbed Scarab by the back of her shirt to haul her to her feet. "We've got to get to the truck."

They parked around the corner from the building, but the window they jumped from was on the opposite side. In order to reach it, they had to loop around. This seemed to throw their pursuers off somewhat. Grossly out numbering them though, there were enough tangos readily available to stand around their vehicle. There were several other cars parked and left running. Probably drivers in them, ready to speed off. They wouldn't be getting out of here at this rate.

Scarab unhooked a flashbang from her tactical vest and hurled it. With the three enemies by their car stunned, they took them out and raced over. Heatstroke dove into the driver's seat and turned the key with so much force that the car gave an indignant sputter before it started up.

A bullet broke through their windshield. Heatstroke went into drive and slammed on the accelerator. "Scarab! Shoot these assholes!"

The Private grabbed her assault rifle and turned in her seat to shoot at the other cars. While Heatstroke couldn't watch, as she banked and weaved through the largely empty streets in a futile effort to shake them, she heard a tire pop behind them followed by the fading echos of a crash.

"Shit, we got more of them joining in off that side street!" Scarab exclaimed.

Heatstroke white knuckled the steering wheel. "They know the layout better than we do, I'm gonna try and get us out of the city."

Her knowledge of the city's streets was limited, but she was able to navigate her way to an exit that'd get them out of the city proper. The road they ended up on led to open flat lands with less obstacles to dodge but less places to turn behind for cover. All the while, Scarab was firing almost nonstop behind them. Bullets clipped and grazed their car.

The rear view mirror exploded with one of the shots. Heatstroke thanked her lucky stars that she had her goggles on as she felt a few pieces of glass cut into her cheek.

 _"India Team, we heard a few crashes from your general direction. What's the situation?"_ MacTavish asked.

It was too late, a last stand out here would be suicide. Scarab replied, practically screaming, "Captain! The mission was a trap! We've got-"

 _"Whoa, calm down! Your voice is blowing out your mic!"_ MacTavish interrupted. _"What happened?"_

Scarab took a breath and reined in her volume. That was replaced with seething frustration. "We've got twenty plus tangos riding our asses. They were waiting for us. Heatstroke and I are trying to outrun them in the truck but we can't shake 'em."

 _"Activate your emergency transponder and we'll come to assist,"_ the Captain ordered.

Another bullet pinged off the front column of the car. It was at that moment that a burst of pressure and then burning ripped from the back of Heatstroke's shoulder through and out below her collarbone. In her singular experience getting shot in the past, she learned one thing: don't look at the wound. Her ear was hot, and it was only then that she realized that blood was leaking down the side of her neck.

How many bullets hit her? She wasn't sure anymore. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Scarab gawking. Heatstroke gripped the wheel tighter, but the tension brought a tingling sensation down her arm that felt worse than the wound itself. "Fire on those trucks, Scarab!"

"R-right!" Scarab turned and continued to lay down covering fire that was met with more gunshots to their already pock marked car. Heatstroke's foot pressed down on the accelerator, letting their speed climb in a last ditch hope that they could outrun these guys.

Next thing she knew, the truck was stopped and she was draped over the steering wheel. They must've run off road into a ditch, because in front of them was a wall of dirt. Hands tugged at her seat belt, but that wasn't coming off. From the corner of her eye, she watched as Scarab gave up and kicked the passenger door open. She climbed out and ran...

As Heatstroke watched her childhood friend's retreating back, her blood ran cold. She couldn't feel a thing, but she knew her injures must've been serious if Scarab couldn't take her along. If Scarab stayed to save her, they'd both die. For the good of both of them, one man had to get left behind.

The faint piddle of tears hit the dashboard, mixing with a forming puddle of blood, and Heatstroke wheezed and choked as her body convulsed from her sobs. It was noisy, and although she wanted to stay silent and play possum until help found her, the spasmodic whining was beyond her control. The enemy would hear her. They'd finish her off. She'll die.

She had six months left before she could go home. Six months! Her dad would've picked her up from the airport; she would've been back for New Years and they would've celebrated Christmas late together. Her mom even promised to keep the tree up for her. She would've caught up with her old buddies back before she even joined the Rangers, in the regular Army. Probably go to that Thai place Harris was always raving about with him.

She didn't even get a chance to tell Scarab _-to tell Alex-_ just how she felt about her. For years and years, she harbored this persistent crush, stuck by her side the only way she ever knew how, and this was the pay off? She really kept this to herself and now she didn't even get to spout it off as some final words? If this was a movie, she was robbed.

How long Heatstroke spent in that car was unclear. Long enough that blood loss from her cumulative injuries left her edging on the brink of unconsciousness. It came to a point where she was too exhausted to cry anymore. Cheek pressed to the wheel and dazed, she had no choice but to wonder what would happen after this. Eventually her teammates would find her, if not dead then very damn close to it. Captain MacTavish would have to make a condolence call to her parents. The last time he had to, he harbored an air of mourning for days after. Even though he didn't shed a tear, he clearly wanted to. Would it be the same for her? Her body would be packed in a bag and shipped home. She'd get a military funeral: stars and stripes on her coffin and punctuated by gunshots. Twenty-six and killed in action. She'd become another statistic. Her parents would sort through her things, probably read her old diaries that she kept in a shoe box. Maybe she'd be awarded another Purple Heart posthumously.

Distantly, she caught voices approaching the car. With great difficulty, she focused on them in hopes that she'd recognize the people speaking.

She didn't.

Her heart sank. Did that mean that Scarab died? Was she next? Heatstroke made one effort after another to move, to escape, but her arm lost all strength and refused to lift her off the steering column. In the process, more of her blood spattered on the dusty plastic of the console.

Dari. They were speaking Dari, from what few words she recognized. They were probably local militia.

Boots appeared just outside the open passenger door. Three people. One crouched to peer inside. His face was covered, but the words he spoke next made her freeze with terror. She didn't know much of any Dari, but she knew a lick of Russian.

"[Get this one out of the car.]" He said.

The driver side door flew open and, after a flick of a knife that split the seat belt, a pair of hands yanked her sideways and out of the wreck with very little regard for her injuries. While she couldn't muster the strength to fight with her arm, she kicked and twisted in a last ditch effort to break their grip. Her efforts were rewarded with a boot to the ribs that sent her rolling on her stomach to cough and choke on the sand. In all the chaos, her bun came loose and strands of hair hung over her face. A hand gripped the sagging coil of hair and pulled her head back so its owner could study her face.

"It's your lucky day," the Russian mused, silvery eyes crinkling in the corners. "We will be keeping you alive. Makarov can find some use for you."

Makarov. He said Makarov. Currently the most wanted man on the globe for his terrorist acts, with a body count well in the hundreds and a casualty count that hit a thousand just this year. That Makarov. Heatstroke's whole body began to shake.

Would he torture her for information? She was a Special Forces Operative. Her clearances granted her a wealth of knowledge concerning the counter terrorism operations in the works, especially where tracking his madman ass down and eliminating him was concerned. Odds were she'd never see home again.

\--- --- ---

The emergency transponder was never activated. For that reason, the Task Force needed to search the surrounding city and roads until their satellite spotted the wreckage that was left of the truck, driven off into a ditch and abandoned. By then, it'd been close to an hour since the last time Scarab had frantically contacted them.

Roach helped comb the surrounding area, but as far as he could tell, the girls were nowhere in sight. He returned to the group, and when the Captain looked to him with that unspoken question of if he found any sign of them, he could only shake his head.

While he'd been circling the area, Ghost worked near the truck, crouched by the open door and studying the interior. He stood up and sighed. "Whichever one of them was driving must've gotten shot, there's blood all over the seat and dashboard. Seemed like they were dragged to the road."

"Someone must've come by and claimed 'em," MacTavish concluded. "Odds are, it was the local militia."

"If it was, then we could scan the zone and look, Sir," Roach suggested.

Like so many times before, MacTavish and Ghost shared one of those unguarded looks reserved for only each other. Somehow, someway, those two were on the same brain frequency. With just that look, a subtle shift in weight from one foot to the other and Ghost uncrossing his arms, the two of them seemed to have a full conversation without a word uttered between the two. Whatever it was, they came to the same conclusion.

"Odds are the General will be calling us back to base any minute, but we can search a while longer until that happens," MacTavish replied (finally) to Roach. "If they died in the crash, the militia wouldn't have bothered to pull them out. Until we see a body, the possibility remains that they're alive and potentially in danger."

Ghost reequipped his ACR and patted Roach on the shoulder as he passed. "Come on, Roach. We'll check the area again. Think you can stall, Captain?"

Without a speck of humor to be found in his features, MacTavish stated, "Stalling's one of my specialties."

The lieutenant snorted.

Could these two get any more confusing?

Roach hurried to catch up and the pair of them scanned the surrounding area once more for any signs of where Heatstroke or Scarab went off to. The best bet was to work from the wreck outward, trace a mental map based on the scene. This much was simple. the car took a number of bullets before crashing in a ditch just off the road. Miraculously, those two must have survived. Along with drag marks and blood stained sand that ended on the road, there were tracks from several people going all around the car. Tire tracks on the very edge of the road indicated that another vehicle had parked a few dozen meters away and left. There was another set of footprints that went up and out of the ditch before converging with the road, only they were spaced wide. Whoever made them was running.

Whoever made them also had little feet. Roach pointedly set his boot beside one of the clearer prints just to compare, since he was pretty average in that regard. "Either this is from one of them or there's a guy running around with tiny feet."

"Looks like Scarab went this way," Ghost said.

Roach blinked and looked between the Second and then the footprints. "How can you tell?"

"It doesn't make sense for one of the enemy militia to run this way unless they were chasing something, and the length of the stride's too wide for Heatstroke to make." He rattled these off flippantly as he followed the tracks up to the road. "Judging by the marks, she tripped and hurt herself getting out of the ditch. She starts limping here, three steps before hitting the pavement."

"Damn. Didn't know you could tell all that. Did you ever consider being a detective?"

Ghost didn't so much as give him a passing glance. He walked along the road, eyes to the ground. "I took a few courses in forensics a long time ago." That was all he said on the subject before swapping to, "Roach, get on the other side of the road. We need to see if she ran off the road somewhere."

Doing as he was told, Roach darted across the deserted highway and kept an eye to the ground. They must've gone about a kilometer out in that direction before Roach noticed two very important things. First, the tracks resumed, and they were accompanied by a swarm of other boot prints in the dry top soil. Second, there was something glinting in the dirt.

"Ghost! Over here!" Roach rushed over to the glinting and uncovered a pair of dog tags. He felt his forehead crease as he read the name. "Alexander Macey...?"

Ghost read the tags over his shoulder and hummed. "US Navy. Pretty sure these aren't Scarab's tags."

"No shit, Sherlock..." Roach pocketed the tags and stood up. "It's not a coincidence, that's for sure."

The lieutenant murmured some faint agreement and paced along the tracks. They led to a spattering of rocks and a small drop. On the far side of one of the larger boulders, they found a sizable blood stain but no body.

Maybe then the militia made off with Scarab too...

"Ghost, do you see anything?"

The tension in his jaw was visible, even beneath his mask. "She wasn't dragged away. Someone else came and picked her up."

Roach traced his line of sight. Sure enough, there was ANOTHER set of tracks. Along with them were the lines of wheels. "W-wait. This is getting a little too weird."

"You're telling me."

Those tracks went as far as out of the rocky area, where they immediately vanished without a trace. Ghost cursed under his breath and turned on his heels. "Bollocks. Seems like whoever got her came in on a helicopter."

If that was the case, then there was no telling where she could be by now. She could've been carted off hundreds of kilometers away by now and in any direction! They'd have an easier time tracking Heatstroke down than trying to find where Scarab ended up, and that'd require them to go back and march the opposite direction back into the town. From there, there was no telling where she could have ended up.

"MacTavish, this is Ghost, Roach and I have reached a dead end. We're making our way back to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In terms of scope, this is the final chapter of Act 1 of 3. It's wild to think that I've gotten this rewrite this far. That's even considering the fact that I cut the final sequence out from Plan B and chucked it in the Non Canon bin.  
> Let's discuss a couple of things here:  
> The summary says that Heatstroke dies. Plan B's narrator, Scarab, believes she did and makes her escape alone. When I was a kid and wrote this, Heatstroke was killed by a singular shot to the head. My sister, whom the character was originally based off, threw a fit when she learned I killed her character so Younger Me brought Heatstroke back later with a half assed explanation that she was captured and didn't actually die. Because this time I know that she'll be back later, I was able to rewrite the scene to make it clear that she lives.  
> Originally, Shepherd was somehow bouncing between being on the base (the base in the UK, specifically) and in Afghanistan to help murder Scarab despite the fact that a helicopter trip to get there would take a whole day. It makes no sense, so he's staying in Fire Base Phoenix. Now technically, one could pose the same argument with Nikolai in this since he's somehow got to fly from Ukraine to Afghanistan, and that's half as long but still 13ish hours of flying. 4 and a half if we're talking from the Loyalist hideout we see in MW3 located in India. No wonder pilots are constantly dropping the "we're at bingo fuel" line in these games. I've got a litter of Loyalists I can also play with, so I can figure some explanation that'll make sense.


	13. Fuck Cliffhangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, and 31a
> 
> 26\. Nikolai is the best. Soap wakes up hurt and confused. Scarab wakes up in the safe house, meets the Loyalists.  
> 27\. Q&A w/ Nikolai. Price segment. [ Price Redacted ]  
> 28\. Q&A w/ Scarab. Soap and Roach are starting Cliffhanger. Cringy dialogue.  
> 29\. Scarab and Nikolai chat more. More Price. More ice climbing. [ Price Redacted ]  
> 30\. Scarab has PTSD. Middle of Cliffhanger suddenly.  
> 31a. Scarab angsts. Tatiana is a G.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: The last scene of this chapter contains depictions of sexual assault and rape. Please feel free to skip this scene if that's not okay for you, any important information in it will be discussed later.

**August 9th 2016**

DUSTWUN is a term applied when the status of a serviceman is unknown. The label was by nature temporary, intended to switch to something more conclusive. The expectation was that they’d investigate the casualty and the circumstances behind their absence. Unless deemed necessary that the status remained for longer, it stayed at maximum 10 days. After that, they needed an answer.

The investigation into what happened to Heatstroke and Scarab was brief. MacTavish and his men searched their last known location and reached a deadend. Clues suggested they were captured, but there were no leads on where they ended up. They sustained heavy injuries, didn’t take a genius to figure that out with all the blood. Several things could’ve happened to them, from being tortured for intel to being executed elsewhere and their bodies dumped. They might not even be together. General Shepherd said that he’d have his men search the Red Zone for any sign of them, but hostile forces made any attempts at locating them dangerous and next to impossible.

So their whereabouts remained unknown.

No bodies turned up, so on the tenth day, their status changed to MIA. That was another notice to their families.

MacTavish brushed his thumb over one of the dog tags Roach found in their initial sweep. They were Scarab’s father’s. He dropped them into the little box of personal belongings. Soon it’d ship to her next of kin. A similar box of assorted items sat beside it for Heatstroke. They weren’t confirmed KIA, but it sure as shit felt like they were.

Since they vanished, MacTavish bounced wildly between his feelings on it. Some days, he dwelled on the last time he talked to Scarab alone. He should’ve said more, apologized for leading her on and putting her through so much emotional strain when she’d already been in a bad headspace. He let his guilt shove her at arm’s length. Other times, he laid awake running the mission over in his head, trying and failing to find anything he could’ve done differently so the two would still be here. The sad fact was that those two got overwhelmed by enemy forces. They would have needed a bigger team.

Two knocks broke his vigil. Standing in the door was Ghost. His sunglasses hung from the collar of his shirt, allowing MacTavish to see the tired look in his eyes. Poor bastard lost a fair bit of sleep trying to talk him through his guilty conscience. “General Shepherd’s on the horn. It’s a new assignment.”

“I’ll take care of it.” MacTavish fell in step beside Ghost as they walked back to his office. “How’s everyone else handling?”

“They’re taking it in their own ways,” Ghost said. “Everybody’s worried about the girls… and, well, about you.”

“I’ll be fine.” He had to be. There wasn’t another option. As Captain, he wasn’t allowed to fall apart in the face of tragedy. He needed to lead his company, to never stagnate.

Ghost wove his hand into his and gripped it tight. “We’re in this together, mate. All of us. If they’re alive, we’ll find them.”

Nobody was around. MacTavish squeezed his hand in return.

“Mm… Aren’t you worried about someone seeing?” Ghost asked, lifting their interlocked hands.

“I’m a little short on fucks to give about that,” he said.

“Then don’t mind me if I take advantage.” Ghost slipped down his balaclava just enough to press a small kiss on his forehead. When they reached the office, he tugged the mask back up over his nose. “Hang in there, okay?”

MacTavish still held his hand. “Mind suffering through a briefing with me?”

“Eh… I suppose looking into Fregata can wait.”

They shut the office door and MacTavish unmuted their end of the call. “General Shepherd.”

“ _Captain,_ ” came the gruff response. “ _We have ourselves a potential security risk. One of our satellites went down deep in the Tien Shan Mountains. There’s an Ultranationalist airbase in the area, and we think they may have taken it._ ”

MacTavish exchanged a look with Ghost, who propped himself against the wall. “The one in Kazakhstan, sir? That’s more than a little deep in the mountains, isn’t it?” It wasn’t just entrenched in the mountains, it was on a snow-capped summit and surrounded by cliffs. The best way in was by air, assuming you had that option.

“ _That’s the one. It’s vital that you infiltrate the base and recover the satellite’s ACS module before they crack it, otherwise we’re going to have a lot more problems on our hands. I’m sending you the most recent intel we have on the site. Recommend you keep your team as small as possible and climb the cliffs on the Southeast face of the mountain._ ”

“Aye. That might be our best option. Anything else?”

“ _Concerning this operation, no._ ” After a beat of silence, Shepherd added, “ _Before you ask, I don’t have any new leads on the whereabouts of Corporal Jays and Private Macey either. We can eliminate the possibility that they’re in the Red Zone._ ”

That narrowed their search slightly. Very, very slightly. “If they’re out there, we’ll find them.”

“ _Of course._ ”

Once the call ended, MacTavish went through the intel Shepherd sent concerning the airbase. The cliffs he recommended they scale looked brutal according to the topography maps. Extraction posed a bigger challenge than infiltration. Ideally, they’d pull this all off without being detected. The world wasn’t anywhere near perfect, so he plotted out a Plan B if they got compromised. Blowing the fueling station would make an excellent diversion, offering them the opportunity to make a getaway.

MacTavish sketched out the layout of the airbase in his journal and puzzled his lip. “The more I look at this, the more it feels like a James Bond film.”

“Listen, mate, unless you end up in some high-speed chase, you can’t tell me that this looks like a Bond film.” Ghost leaned over his shoulder. “So who’s going?”

“It’s got to be someone with high endurance, stealthy, and able to handle explosives.” If there was anyone who fit those criteria, it was… “Roach, maybe?”

“Not a bad choice. Who else?”

Roach had a lot of heart and tenacity. When given the chance, he rose to whatever challenge came his way. Overall, he wasn’t a bad pick. And yet MacTavish couldn’t leave it at that and choose a second person. There was one way to make sure the kid made it back safe and sound. “I’ll go.”

“You sure?”

“I am. I can provide sniper support from the ridge over the base while he plants the C4.” Plus, they didn’t know where the module was being kept. He could use that time to trace its signal. “We should be able to handle it just fine.”

Ghost rested his chin on top of his head. “There’s that confidence. I was starting to miss it.”

MacTavish gave a dry laugh and rested his pen between the pages. “Yeah. Thanks for putting up with my nonsense.”

“You deal with mine. Don’t worry about it.”

\--- --- ---

The last couple of weeks was one long string of stress that rendered Nikolai exhausted. First, the Ultranationalist regime sniffed out their undercover activity and assaulted their hideout in Ukraine. Everyone stationed there had to retreat to their primary base of operations in Northern India, up in the Himalayas. While en route to the safe house, one of his contacts inside Makarov’s terrorist faction got a hold of him about a situation in Afghanistan. A few of Makarov’s Inner Circle were in the Middle East working with the OpFor to make sure their arms train went under the stationed Americans’ noses. The US got wise to what they were up to, however, and simultaneously attacked every suspected weapons cache. The OpFor chased two operators down to the outskirts of town during this operation, hellbent on killing them.

There wasn’t much Nikolai’s comrade could do. The Inner Circle took one operator, odds were to interrogate them. It’d be hell to track them down. The other made a run for it before they were shot and left for dead. All his contact could provide Nikolai with some loose coordinates, allowing him to find the soldier in question sprawled in a shaded ditch beneath a wall of rocks.

It was none other than Scarab, who looked dead at a glance. She took a bullet to the back and fell face down into the sand. Crawled some 20 meters too, from the look of the drag marks left in the dirt. Upon closer inspection, she was still alive, albeit faintly wheezing. It was damn lucky he was a short 20 minute flight away when he heard about this, otherwise she might not have made it.

He tapped her face, finding her just responsive enough to crack open her eyes and murmur something incomprehensible under her breath. She coughed, spitting up a muddy mix of blood, sand, and saliva.

“Tatiana, Viktor! Get the stretcher!” He called over the helicopter’s rotor.

The pair of Loyalists unloaded the stretcher and carried it over. Taking care moving her, they packed Scarab into the helicopter, and Tatiana got straight to work administering first aid while they continued to India.

“This woman is very fortunate,” Tatiana said, long after she’d stripped Scarab of much of her gear. “Her tactical vest slowed the bullet down. It looks like it cracked one of her ribs and punctured a lung, but the wound is shallow. I should be able to extract it easily once we land.”

The wound was non lethal, so how did it incapacitate her in the first place? Last time they worked together, she toughed out a gash to the side. This injury couldn’t have caused immediate unconsciousness. Did she play possum at first to avoid getting shot a second time? In that case, why didn’t she call for help after the danger left? He pondered these questions the rest of the flight.

The safe house wasn’t the nicest. It used to be a large home that overlooked the village, but its previous owners vacated the premises for unspecified reasons and it fell into a mild state of disrepair. Since the Loyalists set up shop, they fixed the many structural problems that came with the building. The extra work was preferable to their fate if they stayed in the New Russia.

The Ultranationalists had one place for them: the gulag.

When they arrived at their destination, Nikolai settled in and attempted to get into contact with Soap and pass on what he knew. Last he heard, they went to Fire Base Phoenix. That was the best place to start. The radio operator though wasn’t all that helpful.

“ _And what d’you say your clearance code was?_ ”

Nikolai groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t have a clearance code. This is important information for the Task Force 141. Can you patch me through to anybody?”

“ _I can’t patch you through, but I can deliver a message to Lt. General Shepherd,_ ” that bored American suggested.

This was the best compromise he’d get. “Alright. This concerns two operators from Task Force 141; I recovered Private Alex Macey and have been treating her injuries. Once she is well enough to travel, I can return her. The other operator who went missing was taken by Makarov’s Inner Circle. I do not know where they are or what may happen to them.”

“ _Is that all?_ ”

“Yes. That is.” Once the transmission ended, Nikolai leaned back in the creaky wooden chair. This was so much easier when he worked as a mole for the S.A.S. He turned off the radio and went to get cleaned up and rest.

Some time later, barely long enough to consider it a nap, Kamarov sought him out. “That woman is awake. Did you want to speak to her?”

“I should.” Nikolai sat up, only to be met with the nagging pain of a stiff back. He stretched, causing several vertebrae to pop. 12 hour flights were such a hassle. They were absolute murder on him, more so with each passing year. “How did she look?”

“Not well. You’re acquainted with her, yes? Through that friend of yours.”

“Soap? Yes, but we only worked together once.”

Kamarov pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “I count it.”

They set up a temporary space for Scarab in a small side room. It wasn’t cheery, but it was somewhat clean. A cot with a thin mattress was pushed to one side, and Tatiana’s bag of medical supplies sat on the table close by. Scarab lifted her head off the pillow when the door opened.

It probably hurt too much to move with that cracked rib. No matter. He approached the cot. “We meet again.”

She slipped her arm out from under the blanket to give him a small wave. “Hey, Nikolai. Glad to see a familiar face. Where are we?”

“Right now we’re in the Loyalist base of operations in India. You’re safe for now.”

Scarab glanced up at the ceiling. “Is Riley here too?”

 _Riley?_ “If you mean the other person you were with, they are not. Makarov’s men took them.”

“That so?” She draped her arm over her eyes. “That’s it then… She’s dead…”

“Not necessarily,” Nikolai tried to assure her, “There’s a chance that Makarov has not executed her.”

“If she’s not dead yet, then she will be. That psychopath might make a show of killing her as an example.”

It was well within the realm of possibility. Along with it, torture was also likely. There was no telling the hell that faced Makarov’s newfound captive. “We are searching for her whereabouts. Hopefully, we can rescue her before it’s too late.”

His attempt at optimism didn’t inspire any hope in her though, none that he could see at least. She took a shallow breath, the exhale crackling like paper.

He steered the topic off of the fate of her fellow soldier. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I guess… We got overwhelmed. So we tried to outrun ‘em until we could get backup, but Riley got shot behind the wheel, lost control, and we crashed in a ditch.” Her fingers curled tight. “I tried to get away, but they chased me down…” She stopped talking altogether at that point. Unfortunately, none of it was new information. If there was more to her situation, it would have to wait until she was willing to discuss it.

“I can leave you to rest,” Nikolai said. “Are you in much pain? I can get the doctor for you.”

“That’d be a big help. Thanks.” She mumbled.

Steadily over the following days, she found the strength to sit up in bed on her own and then to walk short distances unaided. It was her breathing that brought concern. Scarab breathed shallowly to avoid straining her ribs, but it also put her at risk of pneumonia. When Tatiana explained this, Scarab became pale and since then attempted to take deeper breaths despite the clear pain it caused. While they had some pain medication, it was reserved for severe cases because it was difficult for them to get their hands on a good supply. There wasn’t much they could offer for her discomfort beyond applying a cold compress.

As she recovered, he talked to her more. They traded stories and discussed plans. Nikolai didn’t think he was a good storyteller (a summary giver was a better description), but she seemed intrigued when he spoke about his time in Afghanistan with the Soviets and working with the S.A.S. She was young, and so less experienced than him, but had herself a few entertaining anecdotes about her six years of service.

He mentioned over tea, “I am sure you will be able to return to your base soon.”

Her eyes lit up at the prospect of going back. “I hope so. It’ll be nice getting back in the swing of things, you know?”

… He still hadn’t received a response about his first message. Strange, but he assumed they were looking into what little info he gave them. He put a pin in it and decided to bring it up with Soap personally when he next got the chance. “Yes, but it may be some time before you are doing assignments. Your rib needs more time to heal.”

After five days, Scarab was as active as possible without popping stitches or hurting her ribs. Although she was doing better physically, emotionally was another story. Being shot left her jumpy, as to be expected. He hoped the acute stress response wouldn’t develop into a long term issue, but the best person to evaluate it would be a counselor. Nervousness was one thing, but she went through her stuff and turned her pockets inside out in a panic one evening. “Shit shit shit…”

Nikolai watched this frantic searching from the hall, unsure if he should intervene or leave her be. Kamarov was passing by when he glanced into the room and looked to him for an explanation. Nikolai shrugged.

“Where is it…?! It’s gotta be here!” She shuffled through a couple more pockets of her tactical vest before her shoulders sank in defeat. “You’ve gotta be kidding…”

“Did you lose something?” Kamarov asked.

She peeked back at them over her shoulder and tossed the vest aside. “Yeah… My dad’s dog tags are gone. Did you see them anywhere?”

The former Sergeant’s frown was deeper than usual. “I haven’t. Is it possible that you misplaced them?”

“I don’t know. I keep them in the same pocket, but I can’t find them anywhere,” she responded.

“When was the last time you remember having them,” Nikolai asked.

“Back at Fire Base Phoenix.” She punched her leg. “Dammit, they could be anywhere between here and Afghanistan!”

Nikolai’s stomach lurched. He didn’t want to imagine what it’d be like to lose all the family photos he kept in a wallet sleeve. Personal mementos like that were precious things, especially as they risked their lives far from home. He stepped into the room and knelt down beside her. “If any of us see them, we will return them to you.”

It wasn’t much, but she nodded in feeble agreement.

Nikolai stepped back and let Tatiana and Kamarov handle Scarab while he went back to regular company management for a while. It seemed like their situation was stabilizing when the world decided it’d much rather jump into a grease fire. August 12th, there was a mass shooting at the Zakhaev International Airport in Moscow. It was clearly Makarov and his Inner Circle’s doing, but there was a singular detail that all of Russia noticed. It appeared in public addresses from President Vorshevsky and in news articles. Only one shooter’s body was recovered at the scene, and they identified him as an American with potential links to the CIA.

One body and the whole Ultranationalist Russia cried out for vengeance.

\--- --- ---

When they took Heatstroke captive, they taped her mouth shut, threw a hood over her head, secured her arms behind her back, and shoved her in a small space. A trunk, maybe? Under normal circumstances, she could have escaped, but her injured shoulder made it too excruciating to break the thick band of tape through sheer strength alone. She tried kicking too at first hoping to bust out a taillight or something, but they noticed it pretty quick and warned her that if she kept trying, then they’d break her knees. Whether she liked it or not, waiting was her best bet.

And Sweet Jesus, she waited a long time. With no other alternative, she fell back on training and tracked the turns they took to give herself a rough idea where she was. For hours and hours, it stayed relatively consistent; minor changes in bearing that went back. West? They followed that same highway she and Scarab tried to escape down and that’d been going West. Left was the first big turn, sending her South, but then came a right, another left, and right after that, landing back on West. Hours dragged on by as she bumped and rattled in the trunk. They stopped twice, probably to swap drivers, but the third time they did, they opened the trunk and dragged her out into the significantly cooler air.

A couple of men were having a conversation in Russian off to the side. She understood very little of it. This would’ve been so much easier if MacTavish were here. He knew some rudimentary Russian. Hell, he’d probably be able to escape somehow.

… Then again, he didn’t get away from those arms dealers back in Germany, so maybe not.

The hood was tugged off her head, ripping at the scabbing mess of her ear. Heatstroke got her first glimpse at her surroundings. It was dark. Much of the landscape was dusty and rocky around them, with a few dark spots in the distance that could have been smatterings of foliage. There were two cars parked on the side of the road; the one they had dragged her from, and a van. The person who removed her hood was white, with a thick face and buzzed brown hair. He grabbed her by the chin and turned her head every which way, as if appraising her like a vintage porcelain doll for auction. He clicked his tongue in distaste at the mess of dried blood that caked the side of her head and down her neck from the bullet hole in the shell of her ear, and pulled the hood back on over her.

They had to be on the far side of Afghanistan by now, right? If not, then over the border and in Iran. How far were they going to take her? They shoved her along to the van and threw her in the back. The driving continued, and she tried her best to keep track of the turns. It just kept going on and on. Every time they stopped, she thought this was it, they’d pull her back out and it’d be their destination. They didn’t even open the hatch. The stops were brief. It felt like they started going North, but her ability to keep up with all their turns was steadily failing her the longer this carried on. Her mouth and throat went from gummy to bone dry as the beginnings of dehydration set in. She’d been holding her bladder too, but one wrong bump and she pissed herself and had to lie in it for God knows how long.

When they did finally open the hatch again to retrieve her, one man loudly complained — likely because she’d been marinating in urine for so long that she’d become blind to the smell. They dragged her out and pushed her to her knees. She had two seconds of peace to notice bird song and wind through branches when she was splashed with water and once more for good measure. The water loosened some adhesive, which allowed her to wiggle her cheeks and mouth enough to dislodge part of the tape.

They walked her inside a building, then down the stairs and tossed her in a tiled room where they locked the door. Through mild investigation, or rather strategic kicking and bumping around because she couldn’t see through the hood’s black fabric, she determined that this was a bathroom. A bathroom also meant water, if she could get this hood off and turn on the sink. She moved about until she found the doorknob to catch the hood on and pull it off. It strained her jaw, but she used her teeth to turn on the tap and stuck her head underneath. The cold water was a blessing, soothing her sore throat and swollen tongue.

Out of nowhere, a man grabbed her by the hair and yanked her from the sink. This man was none other than Vladimir Makarov. There was no mistaking him. He cast his attention to the running water and asked, “Thirsty?”

She swallowed thickly, a lump forming in her throat.

He pressed the discarded hood over her face and shoved her under the tap. Water saturated the fabric, which clung to her nose and lips. She couldn’t breathe, not without feeling like she was drowning. She thrashed beneath him, unable to break free. The edges of her vision darkened the longer she went without getting a proper breath of air.

And then it was over. He tossed her to the floor. Her shoulder connected with the tile first, sending her nerves haywire. She coughed and gasped, water dripping off her hair and face and soaking her shirt. Makarov planted a shoe directly over her injured shoulder, tearing a cry from her between ragged coughing. “Still thirsty?”

A tremor of fear rattled her to the very core. She shook her head frantically.

“Good.” He smirked, features twisted with sadistic glee. “I will make use of you, American.”

That was the beginning of hell. He sicked his man, Kiril, on her to torture whatever information he could from her. For days, he beat her black and blue. She stayed quiet despite his methods. When it was clear that she’d sooner die than crack this way, Makarov called him off.

Makarov cupped her abused cheek. “Your entire faction is founded on a lie. Shepherd plays his own game, with his own rules. He doesn’t care who he needs to kill. Loyalty means nothing to him. What makes you believe he cares what happens to you?” He gripped her thigh. “Well, Riley?”

She pressed her legs shut. It was the only thing she could do. “We don’t abandon our own.”

“And yet he has done nothing to rescue you. You are another expendable pawn in his plans, one of many more he’s willing to sacrifice to feed his ambitions. Your General and I want the same thing, warfare between Russia and the West. What he doesn’t realize is that he is setting events into motion that he has no hope of stopping. This is bigger than him.” His nails bit into her bruised flesh. “Mark my words, he will betray the men he leads, and he will be rewarded accordingly.”

That couldn’t be right. The General swore an oath to protect the American people just like she did. Surely he wouldn’t put so many lives at stake for his own gain. Right? “He wouldn’t.”

“He would. It has already begun.” Makarov let go of her face and walked towards the side room. “If you won’t talk, then we have other ways of making use of you. Viktor, take her. You and the others can do what you wish.”

Viktor and Lev approached from the side, where they and a few other men were observing the interrogation. While one untied her from the chair, the other held her at gunpoint until they secured her wrists behind her back. They escorted her downstairs to that little bathroom. Once there, they kicked her inside, and she fell over the wall of the tub. The lip collided with her gut and knocked the wind out of her. Wheezing, she hung half inside the bathtub, struggling to right herself. 

“You should have talked when you had the chance,” Viktor said. He reached around and slipped her belt buckle loose. An icy hand shoved its way down her pants, and a similarly icy dread engulfed her as fingers jammed themselves inside past painfully tightened muscles.

Her legs scrabbled, but she couldn’t fight him off. The stretching had her shrieking. “Please, please, no!”

A fist cocked her upside the head. “Quiet!”

She tried to be quiet, she really did. But as her pants were ripped down to her knees, and the violation continued, she shook and sobbed. One particularly hard thrust dug the tub’s rim into her stomach, and that set off a chain reaction. She gagged and threw up a mouthful of bile, which she coughed and choked on. The acid hit the back wall of her throat and got pushed up into her nose from her desperate attempts to breathe, further burning her sinuses.

When that bastard finished, she felt the uncomfortable slick of semen down her inner thighs. She thought it was over, but that was when the other one yanked her off the tub. He pushed her face into the peach tile floor and shoved himself in, biting some Russian profanity out as he further raped her. Even after they were done, it wasn’t the end. She had brief breaks, but either they came down for more or someone else did.

When Kiril came, he tore her uniform apart piece by piece. “Your country is never coming for you. You should thank me for destroying this garbage.”

Find a happy place. Escape to a mental room where dad was waiting at the airport, to home where it smelled of vanilla and the kitchen was bright with laughter. Escape to that Taco Tuesday two years back at the table with a fruity margarita and a collection of friends. But whatever you do, don’t stay in the bathroom, with all that pain and hopelessness. Don’t stay and listen to the awful things they say and do to you.

Don’t let yourself dwell on how deeply they violate you.

Sensations stopped having meaning. She didn’t feel like she was present in her own body. Pain was there, but it didn’t matter. Her body operated on autopilot. Anything to get her through this. There was a stretch of time when she was finally left alone. She dragged her aching body into the corner and curled in on herself. It was only a matter of time before this hell began all over again.

The next one in the room was the quiet one. Yuri, she’d heard Makarov call him once. He looked down upon her and, with a sigh, he set down a plastic bag on the toilet seat. He then turned on the water in the tub. “Get in.”

At first, she didn’t understand it, so she gawked. What the hell was he planning?

“You must feel gross, yes? Get in the bath.” He said, nodding to the steadily filling basin.

Hesitantly, she did as told and climbed to her unsteady feet. She stepped into the tub and felt the welcome feeling of warm water wash over her toes.

“Hold still, I am cutting the tape.” The edge of a steel knife brushed her arm hair as it sliced the duct tape apart. “Okay.”

She rubbed the tacky residue left on her skin and lowered herself into the tub, hugging her knees against her chest. “Why are you doing this?”

Yuri got up and shifted through the plastic bag, setting out various first aid supplies and a couple folded garments of clothes. “A guilty conscience.” He took the first aid kit and sat himself on the side of the tub. “You were shot. Let me see.”

She released her shoulder and scooted closer for him to examine it.

“The bullet passed all the way through, at least. You will need a doctor who can treat you properly.” For now, he cleaned it out. There were many injuries she couldn’t reach, let alone see. He attended to each with care. “Do you have family, Riley?”

“I do,” she answered quietly as the sponge swiped along her bare back.

“Close?”

She nodded. “Yeah…”

Once she was clean, he dressed her wounds and passed her the bundle of clothes. They weren’t much, a pair of men’s pants and an olive drab tee shirt, but they gave her a shred of dignity back. The last things he handed her were a cup of water and a bread roll. “What Makarov said was not a lie. General Shepherd has been colluding with him for some time now.”

She’d hoped it was a lie, but apparently not. “He is?”

Yuri glanced at the door and kneeled in front of her. “Shepherd has sent an American agent to operate undercover in our ranks, and he is coming with us on our biggest assault yet. He will be used to implicate America in a major conspiracy... Tomorrow I will be back to get you out of here.” He left after that, taking the plastic bag and first aid kit with him.

He never returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This begins the chaos that is Act 2. It's crazy coming back to writing Plan A after all this time I spent working on the JJBA fic Reverse Psychology for most of this year. That fic's not done and I'm intending to get back to it come January, so I may be in a weird situation where I'm juggling both these fics at the same time, at least until I wrap up Act 2 of this fic and take another break from it.
> 
> Right, so let's discuss some of the changes, shall we?  
> Firstly, and probably the biggest change, I scrapped writing out Cliffhanger's transcript as a narrative. As much as I adore that mission and all its icy coolness, there's no good way I can write it that won't just rehash what we see in game. I don't want to do that unless I'm showing events from a unique perspective or am changing things in some way from the canon story. Just assume this mission plays out exactly like it would if you were playing it. Along with cutting out the mission itself, I gave Soap and Roach's cringy side convos the chop.  
> There's also a stunning lack of Soap waking up hurt and confused. Originally, if you remember the summary of the previous chapter, Shepherd attacks Soap and uses the stupid mind probe. Apparently he drags Soap's unconscious body back, says he got attacked by a bear, and ditched to go shoot Scarab countries away. Because Shepherd doesn't do that here, Soap has no reason to be injured. Don't worry about it.  
> Scarab and Nikolai have EXTENSIVE back and forth about what the situation is for, I kid you not, FOUR CHAPTERS. It rambles and gets into dumb side stories that don't matter. Because Shepherd didn't shoot Scarab here, she has no concrete reason to suspect him, so she doesn't bring it up to Nikolai. I needed to make Nikolai suspicious of Shepherd in other ways, so this is the beginning of that.  
> Scarab doesn't have PTSD in this, at least not yet anyways. At the moment, it's too early to diagnose her with it, because PTSD is when the crippling anxiety, nightmares, and flashbacks after a traumatic event don't go away months and sometimes years afterwards making readjusting to daily life difficult if not impossible. Amusingly, Younger Me claimed to include it because it made the story more "realistic."  
> Then Price's scenes in the Gulag doing basically nothing got cut and I added what's going on with Heatstroke instead. I plan for her to do stuff that impacts the plot, so I kinda need her to still have a presence, you know? I also added Yuri to the mix, because Plan B was written pre MW3. I figure I'll blend elements of the third game to ground the events of this fic. It won't be MW3 all over again, because I have a love/hate relationship with that game.  
> One last thing. I call the extremist group that they're dealing with in the Red Zone OpFor (Opposing Forces) here because the faction you fight in Team Player has no name. I toyed with the idea of either calling them Al-Qatala after that fantasy Middle Eastern country's terrorist group in the new Modern Warfare reboot or coming up with an original name, but they don't play enough of a role past this point for me to bother.
> 
> *deep breath* ALRIGHT. And lastly, I'm bumping up the rating to E because of rape scene and any potential sex scenes (consensual later, I promise) that'll come up in the future. I'll add a warning as well.
> 
> Thank you guys. Stay safe and much love.


	14. Follow the Shell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapters 31b-32
> 
> 31b: Takedown cut scene. They go to Brazil, sack up in Hotel Rio.  
> 32: Nikolai offers to take Scarab to Brazil. Ghost + Meat spy on Rojas. Gunshots through the window. Soap goes to meet w/ Nikolai to plan LZs, meets Silvia.

With the ACS recovered, Roach and MacTavish returned to base feeling pretty damn good about themselves. They settled back in, got a hot meal, and shook the residual chill from their bones. MacTavish stayed up an extra hour to file his mission debrief and retired to his waiting bed and partner. For once, he let Ghost spoon him.

Yes, things were dandy until 09:50 the following morning, when news came in that Makarov assaulted the Zakhaev International Airport. Mass casualties were tragic enough — they were the reason for this company’s existence — but every additional detail that unfolded about the situation made it worse and worse.

Makarov and his men escaped and vanished. The FSB had no luck finding him.

The FSB recovered the body of one of his men in a vehicle depot.

The equipment Makarov’s men used were American made. Witnesses also reported hearing the terrorists use “military jargon.” A conspiracy blew up online that America sponsored the assault as well as Makarov’s previous shootings and bombings.

Shepherd identified this man as PFC Joseph Allen; the Ranger he pulled for the Task Force 141. In an odd twist, Allen also got selected for a deep-cover operation backed by the CIA to enter Makarov’s ranks, gain his trust, and report his movements. This was effective immediately.

The FSB also IDed Allen as an American linked to the CIA. They released this information to the public, further fueling conspiracy theories. One Russian hashtag that started trending on Twitter within the first half hour after the shooting translated to  _ #JusticeforMoscow _ .

All of Russia united in outrage over the US seemingly backing a terrorist and attacking civilians. President Vorshevsky gave an address, reflecting his country’s anger.

10:14, MacTavish and Ghost were on another conference call with General Shepherd concerning the latest developments. The outlook was bleak.

“The Russians ain’t gonna let this massacre go unanswered. It’s gonna get bloody.” Ghost said, glowering at the updated casualty count. 129 civilians, 24 security officers, 29 FSB officers. The numbers were still climbing.

“Too right, mate,” MacTavish replied. “Now, in the eyes of the world, they’re the victims. No one’s gonna say a word when the Russians club every American they can reach.”

Shepherd remained even toned and stone faced. “Makarov was one move ahead. Now he’s left thousands of bodies at the feet of an American.”

This mess was warped beyond recognition. MacTavish flipped through the files. “We’re the only ones who know it was Makarov’s op. Our credibility died with Allen. We need proof.”

“Follow the shell.” At that moment, Shepherd sent them photos of an identical pair of bullet casings through the network. One casing came from the photo of Allen’s body. The other was one of many recovered from their operation in Germany. Its point of origin was Brazil. He sent a couple target files in. “Alejandro Rojas.”

“Never heard of him, Sir.”

“You know him as Alex the Red,” Shepherd explained. “He supplied the assault.”

MacTavish sighed and rubbed his face. “One bullet to unleash the fury of a whole nation. Which means…”

“He’s our ticket to Makarov.”

They’d need to fly to Brazil and find Rojas. He dealt with many terrorist groups over the years, including that daisy chain of armaments the 141 cut off last month. He might have been connected to Fregata Industries (a shipping company, potential “front” business for smuggling) as well, but the link wasn’t solid. Any intel they squeezed out of him could bring them one step closer to taking Makarov down. There was a wrinkle, though. Rojas had been living off the radar since 1997. For all they knew, he flew the coop a long time ago. What they had was someone who appeared to be Rojas’s assistant. He showed up at dealings in his place, and he’d been last sighted in Rio de Janeiro.

“Given the current political climate, Sir, it’d be a good idea if we have a back-up plan in case things kick South,” MacTavish said.

“If you think it’s necessary, I’ll sanction it. Once you capture Rojas, you’re to take him to the U.S.S. Chicago. We can better interrogate him there.”

“Understood.” The call ended, and MacTavish turned his attention square to Ghost. “Mind rounding up a team? I’ve got something to arrange. We’re leaving ASAP.”

“On it.” Ghost left the briefing room.

With a moment alone, MacTavish took two seconds to find his center and then called Nikolai.

“ _ Ah, my friend. I was waiting to hear from you. _ ”

“Oh yeah? I take it you know about the situation.”

“ _ [Yes], more or less. What do you need of me? _ ”

“We’re following a potential lead that could get us intel on Makarov. He’s stationed in Rio de Janeiro. I’m not saying it’s guaranteed to go wrong, but given the geopolitical climate, I’d appreciate it if you’d meet us there in case we need emergency extraction.”

“ _ I will be there, my friend. You know the frequency to reach my helicopter’s radio, but in case it comes up, I do also have a phone for now. _ ”

God, he needed to make good on his promise and get Nikolai that case of Imperia for all the shit he put up with. “Thanks, Nikolai. I owe you.”

10:40, A team of 10 men deployed and were en route to Brazil. ETA 12.5 hours, or approximately 20:00 local time. Mobilization happened so fast that the mission briefing for everybody else had to wait until they were in the air. They’d keep their presence on the down-low while they better tracked Rojas.

“So we lost the new guy already,” Royce said once the plane had run silent for several minutes.

Meat hummed in agreement. “I’ll give Private Allen this: he set the record for shortest time in the unit. What do you think it was? Did he just get unlucky?”

“It could’ve been a lot of things. Too bad we can’t ask him.”

MacTavish kept a cautious ear on their conversation whilst thumbing the clip to one of his ammo pouches. The circumstances revolving around Allen’s reassignment, blown cover, and death were more than just bizarre. Allen’s file showed a stunning lack of credentials in espionage. The 22-year-old Ranger had a few deployments under his belt, and only the last one to Fire Base Phoenix (to train local militia, mind you) had open combat. The most stand out thing he did was run a decent time in The Pit. That was all. No special qualifications, no additional skills that’d make him a suitable choice. Surely the CIA had better people they could send to infiltrate Makarov’s Inner Circle.

He could squint and see Allen getting pulled for the Task Force. Maybe. But even if General Shepherd needed to pull someone from the 141 for this deep cover operation, why on God’s Green Earth did he pick  _ him _ ? It made no sense.

For all the weirdness involved, MacTavish was still reluctant to call the General out. There had to be some reason beyond his knowledge, outside his clearance even, that Allen got picked. Whatever it was, he couldn’t question his CO’s decisions.

The fact that his men picked up on it wasn’t reassuring. This ugly secret loomed like a shadow in the corner, and he wanted to convince himself that it was a trick of the light. With each person who acknowledged that shadow, it became a little more real, and a lot more intimidating.

“You alright, mate?” Ghost asked him, just quiet enough that it went unheard by the rest of the team.

“Should be,” MacTavish said. “Just got the worst feeling, like Makarov and Russia won’t be our only problems soon.”

“Mm… Something’s been off for weeks now. I’m not placing much stock in Scarab’s conspiracy theories, but I can’t shake the feeling that she might have been onto something.”

If she was right… God, he hoped not. General Shepherd was a lot of things, but a traitor? Please. Scarab was throwing spaghetti on the wall and seeing what’d stick. Every theory she presented was baseless. “Even if she was, there’s no proof. All we can do is proceed as normal unless something substantial comes up.”

Ghost nodded. “And if something does?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

The sun had long set when they arrived in Brazil. Much of their equipment was stashed in cases and hidden away, stowed in the trunks of rental cars and nondescript vans. They’d stake out the city for Rojas’s assistant, and the best way to do that was to drive in and maintain a low profile.

Rio de Janeiro as a whole was a beautiful city, glittering with lights in the evening and boasting a healthy tourist industry. In the distance, Christ The Redeemer resided over the city like an onlooker. There were plenty of nice parts, but they weren’t staying in any of them. They went to a favela that, like many, sprang up on its own without city officials’ involvement. The area was like a tiny city within a city that popped out of the hillside, living worlds divided from the evenly districted and tourist friendly sectors. They found a vacant boarded up living space within the micro-community to set up shop. Green paint chipped off the walls, and the air was so sour and humid that it forced them to crack windows wherever they could. Based on the stained ceiling and rotting floorboards, the previous tenants must’ve abandoned it because of water damage.

There were a hundred of these low-income settlements in the city, and each was perfect for Rojas to hide in. The difference between this one and all the others was that it’d become a hotspot for local militia activity. See, the situation was much more turbulent than just an arms dealer and his associates. There was a gang with a strong presence in this area, and their hold was like a vice. The unease was palpable, from weary merchants in the market to groups of kids who’d stop playing football when they passed. Rojas used to hold connections to the local gangs via previous dealings, but according to intel, he snubbed them in favor of Makarov’s much more lucrative business. If they left the situation alone, the militia would find Rojas on their own and kill him for cutting off their weapon supply. The 141 needed to swoop in and bag Rojas before these thugs did.

It took a long time for them to cart in their equipment from the vehicles into their impromptu base of operations without drawing attention to themselves. At least they had the cover of nightfall and the lack of lighting on this street.

Once things settled, MacTavish stepped out for a smoke and found Ghost by the cars. His balaclava was scrunched around his neck, the white of the mandibles peeking in the folds at his throat. He hadn’t worn it in hours, so for once his short hair was a little less matted down. To see him look so inconspicuous was a blend of strange and amusing, a rare treat that MacTavish adored. Acting casual, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to offer him one. “Was it your turn to take watch already?”

Ghost brushed off his offer. “Not really. Meat’s taking a piss.”

“‘Course he is. Man’s getting old,” MacTavish quipped, leaning against the door of the black car.

“He’s barely thirty,” Ghost pointed out.

“With two kids. That ages you.”

Ghost rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

Huh. Usually a dumb remark like that at least got a chuckle out of him. MacTavish double checked Ghost’s posture. His arms were folded in front of him in a loose self hug. “How’ve you been holding up?”

“Just tired is all. I’ll manage.”

“Go inside and get some rest then. I need you at your best tomorrow,” MacTavish said, giving a soft pat to Ghost’s shoulder.

The lieutenant dipped his chin and headed in for the night. It wasn’t necessary, but MacTavish reshuffled the watch shifts to give Ghost a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

\--- --- ---

Rocket relieved Roach from watch at 03:30. Roach didn’t feel tired, since he’d slept like a bear on the flight over, but it was only a matter of time before the jet lag kicked in full gear. He wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of the time zone difference, because when he came back inside, Meat, Royce, and Merlin were playing blackjack at the table with just a torch pointed up at the ceiling for light.

“You’re still up?” He asked, pulling his cap off his head.

“Shh.” Royce tipped his head to the opposite side of the room, where MacTavish was fast asleep sitting in the corner and Ghost had changed positions to rest his head on the Captain’s thigh. Royce spoke in hushed tones. “Wanna join the game or do you need to take a nap.”

“Deal me in.” Roach took a seat on the empty stool by the table. “The militia’s gotten pretty quiet. I’ve just seen a couple of scouts patrolling the street.”

“Any civis?” Merlin slid two cards across the table along with a pack of M&Ms to him.

Roach opened the pack, tossed in a bet of 3 candies, and turned his cards over. A pair of twos, he’d need to hit when his turn came. “A few.”

“That’s good,” Royce said and tapped the table. Merlin dealt him a new card. He already had a 14 total, but that six brought him to 20. Almost perfect. He smirked and held. “We’ll be less conspicuous that way.”

“Yeah, we said that last time too.” Meat huffed. “It won’t mean a whole helluva lot if we catch the guy and he caps himself.”

“That was a fluke. It happens.” Roach rested his chin in his hand. “We’ll get him this time, I’m sure.”

“That’s the spirit,” Royce agreed. “Who knows, maybe with that kind of attitude, you’ll actually win one of these games, Roach.”

The Sergeant’s nose crinkled. “I’ll have you know I can win this game any time I want if I do the math.”

“Pull that card counting bullshit and I eat all your M&Ms,” Merlin said.

“Kidding - I’m kidding.” Roach chuckled.

Merlin disregarded Roach and turned Meat. “You going to hit or hold?”

Meat grimaced at his cards. “I’m gonna regret this, but hit me.”

Merlin passed him a Jack of Diamonds.

“Fuck. I bust.” He slid his M&Ms in towards the middle.

“How about you, Roach?”

“I’ll hit.” The card he got was a seven, so all he needed was nine and he’d win. “Again.”

The next card was a nine.

“Blackjack, mate.”

Royce and Meat groaned in unison.

“Bugger.” Merlin turned over the second dealer card, revealing he had 15 total. He drew another card, two. With a heavy sigh, he waved to Roach. “Alright, dealer holds at 17. Give the man your candy.”

“Booo...” Meat flicked an M&M at Roach’s head, causing it to hit his chin and patter on the table. “You sure you didn’t cheat?”

Roach snickered. “Not this time.”

“Next time, Roach, you’re dealing,” Royce said.

“Sure thing.”

\--- --- ---

Nikolai should’ve made landfall sometime around 04:00, but MacTavish didn’t contact his helicopter until 2 hours after that. With such a long flight, he figured Nikolai needed to refuel in several meanings of the word. Instead of his friend, he reached the copilot on the Pave Low’s radio.

“Is Nikolai available?”

“ _ He is… _ ” the copilot said with some hesitance. “ _ … but the flight was very long, so he is sleeping. Is it essential that you speak with him, because if not, I would rather not wake him up. _ ”

MacTavish full heartedly agreed with that sentiment. “I’m just relaying the coordinates for the extraction points in the event that we need to call you guys.”

“ _ I will write them down. — Alright, go. _ ”

He read out the coordinates and answered what questions he could about both of them. The primary exfil point was in a clearing just past the market. It’d be tight, but Nikolai proved time and time again that he could pull it off. There weren’t many open spaces on ground level, so the secondary LZ was a klick away on the rooftops. If neither worked, then they’d need a new plan all together, and he wasn’t keen on the prospect.

Of course, in his experience, the only times they used a primary exfil point was when they weren’t in danger of being overrun. Given his track record and the likelihood they’d be engaged in favela warfare, it seemed well within the realm of possibility that his bad luck with LZs would continue through today.

After passing that crucial piece of information along, MacTavish pulled out his journal and flipped to the blank page he’d skipped yesterday to draw a map of the favela over two pages instead of compressing it on one. It’d bug him later if he left it empty, so he fell back on his regular pass time of sketching.

It didn’t take long before he loosely captured the chaotic sprawl of buildings just outside; of large leafy palm trees, and the distant mountain with its statue landmark. Too bad he couldn’t capture the retreating purple clouds on fading blue skies in all its majesty with his limited pen colors. He settled for roughing in their shapes. Satisfied with the drawing, he shut the journal and slid it into his back pocket.

Downstairs, most of the team had cracked open MREs and chatted over breakfast. Meat and Roach were playing hot potato with one of the heater packs, but the minute he walked in Meat tossed it at him with a sharp, “Think fast, Captain!”

MacTavish caught it just before it would’ve sailed over his shoulder and chucked it back at Meat. “Your aim’s too high, mate.”

“If you don’t catch it, you lose,” Meat pointed out as he passed the heater back to Roach.

“Fair enough.”

Royce stood up. “It’s a big neighborhood, Captain. Where do we start?”

“For now, we’ll split up and monitor what the local militia do, see if we can find any leads. You know the drill, concealed arms, and don’t fire unless fired upon. Royce, you and Meat will stay here with Ghost on over watch. Doc, take Rocket, Chemo, and Klepto towards the East. Roach, Merlin, you’re coming with me West.”

He received varied affirmations from the team, from grunts to nods and  _ Yes, Sir _ ’s. Now the actual work began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, all things considered, this chapter didn't change nearly as much as the last chapter did. Still a fair few things, so let's touch base with them, shall we?  
> Because I wrote this originally at 13 and couldn't be assed to do research for anything, I sorta sucked my breath and cringed at the strange depiction of Rio. I didn't describe much, but they stayed in a hotel, which sounds like they stayed at the more regulated part of the city. But this is Younger Me who wrote this, and I'm pretty sure I just thought all of Rio de Janeiro looked like what we see in the game. I did some research on Rio this time around and I think it really helped me get a better grasp of what was going on with this mission. Favelas can be super pretty and display human ingenuity.  
> In Plan B, they meet with some contact named Cortez. It doesn't really add much. The scene got cut.  
> There's a scene where Scarab is standing dramatically, thinking about that time she and Soap kissed on the balconey(tm), when Nikolai shows up hype because Soap called and asked him for help. Scarab sighs dramatically and Nikolai offers to take her along. I still wanted Soap to ask Nikolai in advance, because the logistics of getting Nikolai to Brazil from India is a nightmare. Later on, Scarab is there acting as Nikolai's copilot (I guess...?!). She's not here this time, period. Gave Nikolai a Loyalist with actual flight experience to come with him. We'll call him Sasha.  
> There's another scene where Ghost notices Rojas and his assistant talking in the streets, and instead of doing the rational thing and apprehending the guy, he gets Meat to translate what they're saying. No logic here. Hell, the assistant also lectures Rojas on patience. I yeeted this whole part in the trash and replaced it with cards because fuck that noise.  
> Finally, there's a scene where Soap leaves the group to meet up with Nikolai and on the way he meets Silvia and her son Roberto. Is Roberto relevant? Heavens no! Silvia comes back later and reveals that she's a spy for Makarov. Not before attempting and failing to get into Soap's pants. She does make Scarab think Soap's cheating however, which sparks a whole debacle later. Silvia's a dumb character and I refuse to write her. Ghost and Scarab fight over Soap just fine without her, thank you very much.
> 
> Hope you all have a good day. Stay safe and much love! <3


	15. Takedown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapter 32(.5)
> 
> 32(.5). Takedown.

**August 13th, 15:08**

The search for Rojas continued through the morning and into the afternoon. Doc’s team noted a small group of militia congregating around a van with AK-47s and small arms. They lost track of the vehicle, but last they knew, it was headed west. MacTavish’s team spotted a white van driving through that matched the description and tailed them. They left the boundaries of the favela. Ghost, Meat, and Royce moved accordingly and started the quiet process of diverting civilians from the area.

“ _ Ghost, the plates are a match, _ ” MacTavish said.

Ghost glanced down the road. MacTavish’s team was a klick away, out of sight. “Copy. Any sign of Rojas’ right-hand man?”

“ _ Negative. They’ve stopped twice already - no sign of him. _ ” After a beat, MacTavish continued, “ _ Wait, they’ve stopped again. Standby. _ ”

If only he wasn’t on over watch. The tension in the air was growing, gnawing at Ghost’s stomach as he listened with rapt attention to MacTavish’s play-by-play.

“ _ Got a positive ID. Whoever these guys are, they’re not happy to see him… _ ”

Gunshots resounded down the street; Desert Eagle, if he had to guess. Both Meat and Royce stood straighter, the former gripped his gun a little tighter.

“ _ Ghost, we have a situation here! _ ” MacTavish’s calm swapped with raising alarm. The rapid clacking of AK-47 fire followed, and then the blaring of a car horn. Ghost’s heart stopped.

_ Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. For fuck’s sake, please don’t be dead. _ There was a break in the gunshots, replaced by hysterical shrieking. He signaled to Meat and Royce to follow him, and sprinted down the street with them in tow towards the monotone wailing of the horn. Civilians fled the area, screaming and tripping over each other. Ghost shoved past a woman who nearly ran into him in her haste. What waited for him there? How many bodies would they find in that damn Lincoln?

“ _ Ghost! Our driver’s dead! We’re on foot! _ ” MacTavish finally said over the comms, and just the sound of his voice made Ghost choke on his relief. “ _ Meet us at the Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can! _ ”

Merlin was behind the wheel. Ghost put a tap on his emotions and rounded a corner. “Roger, I’m on my way!”

A car sped up the street at them, Meat jumped to one side and narrowly dodged a direct collision. More cars swerved to dodge pedestrians, hitting other vehicles and posts. Some caught fire, others smoked or steamed. The acidic taste clung to Ghost’s sinuses with every measured breath he took.

At an intersection ahead of him, MacTavish and Roach ran up the sidewalk. Past them, Rojas’s assistant booked it at breakneck speeds and ducked off the road behind the side of the hotel.

“He went into the alley!” Ghost just about caught up with them.

A car raced right towards MacTavish out of the blue. The brakes squealed as it came to an abrupt stop. The grill of the car nearly bashed the Captain in the knees, but he slid over the hood and kept going. “Non lethal takedowns only! We need him alive!”

_ He’s okay. He’s okay. _ Ghost banked left into the alley, now side by side with MacTavish.

Roach passed them, coming to the next turn ahead. He slid to a stop and took aim.

“Roach - take the shot! Go for his leg!” MacTavish ordered.

The Sergeant fired twice and lowered his gun.

They caught up to him, and MacTavish took a deep breath at the assistant writhing on the concrete. He patted Roach on the back. “He’s down. Nice shot, Roach. Let’s scrape this guy off the pavement and leave before the militia catch up.”

Meat kicked the gun away from the assistant and handcuffed him. Once he had the assistant detained, he dressed the bullet wound in his thigh.

The assistant stuttered in Portuguese, “[Who the hell are you people? Americans?]”

“[Get up. You’re coming with us.]” Meat said, dragging him to his feet. “Think we can get back to the nest with him?”

“We’ll have to.” MacTavish got back on the comms. “Doc, we got Rojas’ right-hand man. What’s your team’s status?”

“ _ Been quiet in this section, Captain. No sign of Rojas, and less militia activity. _ ”

“Roger. Keep searching, then. We’re gonna see if the assistant knows anything.”

“ _ Copy that. _ ”

Ghost drew in beside MacTavish and scanned him with a critical eye. He didn’t look any worse for wear, as far as he could tell. “You’re not hurt, are you, mate?”

MacTavish shook his head. “I’m fine. Can’t say the same for Merlin though.”

Ghost could only imagine what it looked like, with Merlin shot and slumped on the wheel. Body retrieval would be a nightmare. “We can talk about it later when all’s said and done.”

“Aye, we’ve still got a job to do.”

They had to walk this assistant back to the favela, as the roads were jammed with car accidents and the first responders arriving on scene to handle the situation. Once they slipped out, they brought this guy to an empty garage and secured him to a chair.

Ghost did a cursory glance of the room for anything he could use to interrogate him. The blowtorch looked promising. He turned it over in his hands to inspect it. It seemed in good enough shape to boot. He gave MacTavish a nod and ignited it while the Captain turned to talk to the rest of the team.

Grabbing the back of the assistant’s sweat-soaked shirt, he brought the spindle of flame closer to the assistant’s face. “[You’re Alejandro Rojas’ assistant, right?]”

The assistant looked from the torch to him, fidgeting in the chair. Each breath turned into a panicked gasp. “[What are you going to do with that?]”

The sheet metal door slammed shut as MacTavish stood up and paced to the corner of the room. Ghost brought the blowtorch a little closer, just enough for him to feel the radiating heat. “[Nothing, if you cooperate. Where is Alejandro Rojas?]”

He stammered something a bit too fast for Ghost to make sense of. Just outside, there was more gunfire, followed by screams and barking.

“ _ Bravo 6, be advised - we’ve engaged enemy militia at the lower village! _ ” Royce said.

MacTavish tapped the button on his radio and replied, “Royce, gimme a sitrep, over.”

“ _ Lots of militia, but no sign of Rojas over here, over! _ ”

“Copy that! Keep searching. Let me know if you see him. Out.”

“[Last chance,]” Ghost threatened, maintaining the torch’s distance from his skin. “[Is he in this favela or not?]”

“[He is! He is!]”

“[Where then?]”

“ _ Meat is down! I repeat, Meat is down! _ ” Royce shouted.

The assistant squirmed against him, unable to place distance between himself and the fire. “[I don’t know! He has been hiding from the militia, he could already be trying to escape!]”

“[And where would he go? Do you know?]”

“[There’s a house uphill, red paint on the side. He keeps money in a safe there, in case he needs to leave in a hurry. If he’s not there already, he will be! I know nothing else!]”

Ghost shut off the gas and lowered the torch. Two minutes; this had to be a new personal record for him. “Apparently Rojas is headed uphill, to a house with red siding. He’ll probably try to escape while we’re fighting the militia.”

MacTavish threw open the door and stepped down. “Christ. I think I know where that is. We passed it earlier before we tailed the van. We gotta hurry.”

“What about him?” Ghost asked, putting down the torch and gearing up.

Stopping in his tracks, MacTavish cast the assistant a glance. “Leave him. We’re here for Rojas.”

“Alright.” Ghost hopped down and out of the garage to follow the Captain, leaving the assistant tied to the chair.

“Roach - we’ve got Rojas’ location! He’s heading west along the upper levels of the favela. We’ll keep him from doubling back on our side - keep going and cut him off at the top!”

Roach answered, “ _ Copy that! Captain, Royce and Meat are KIA. _ ”

MacTavish grit his teeth. “There’s no time for backup. You’re gonna have to do this on your own. Good luck. Out.”

It was pandemonium in the streets. Militia swarmed the area, coming out of every nook and cranny to attack. In order to make any headway, they got into a pattern of one of them darting from a piece of cover to the next while the other covered them. It was slow going, and at this rate, they’d never catch Rojas before he escaped.

“Ghost, see that dumpster over there? We’re gonna take a shortcut.” MacTavish charged across, dodging and ducking behind light cover as bullets pinged around him. He reached the dumpsters and climbed atop one and then up on the rooftop. “Come on!”

Following his lead, Ghost sprinted and climbed up to meet him. There was a street on the opposite side of the building, further up the incline than where they were. MacTavish dropped to it and Ghost stayed close behind.

“[Circle around! Circle around!]” One man yelled.

“They’re gonna cut us off, we’ll need another route,” Ghost said.

“Let’s take that alley, see if we can’t shake ‘em.”

They turned down the narrow footpath which sidewinded around several buildings. While rounding the corner, they encountered a few more enemy militia hiding in wait. MacTavish warned Roach about checking his corners, which honestly seemed a little silly at this point.

Back on the main street, a pair of shutters on the second story of a building flew open and machine gun fire forced them to find cover. There was no time for this! Not when they hadn’t even so much as spotted Rojas. Ghost sprinted in under the window and chucked a grenade up inside the MG nest. With a boom and a shout, the MG was down.

“Ghost! Rooftops!”

He looked up and saw exactly what MacTavish was talking about. A few men toting RPGs sprinted along the tin plated roofs and found positions to load up and aim. Ghost shot them down, but not before one of them fired the grenade his way. It spun out and exploded against the wall behind him, sending bits of concrete showering on him from the impact. He raised his arm to protect his eyes.

Ghost caught a flash of red on his forearm, the sting of shallow cuts from flying debris. He swore under his breath and pushed forward. There had to be an easier way to do this. Something.

“There he is!” MacTavish pointed up ahead, where Rojas ducked into a building with a chipped red wall and slammed the door shut behind him. More armed militiamen came running in from side streets and along the roofs, bogging them down with a volley of bullets.

With MacTavish laying down covering fire, Ghost gave chase, kicking in the door. The flimsy wood barrier splintered and flew wide open. In the next room, Rojas lugged a duffel bag over his shoulder and sprinted up the stairs, leaving behind an open, empty safe.

“ _ Roach, we’re taking heavy fire from the militia here, but I’m still tracking Rojas! He’s gone into a building! Ghost, do you see him? _ ”

In that moment, Rojas looked back at him and fired several shots, forcing Ghost to duck behind the wall while he scrambled up and out of sight. “Roger that, he’s climbing onto a roof carrying a black duffel bag!” Ghost swore under his breath and ran up the stairs after him, up onto the rooftops.

“ _ Well, that ought to slow him down! Roach, we’re keeping him from doubling back! Keep moving to intercept! Go! Go! _ ”

Rojas shot at him a couple more times over his shoulder before dropping the duffel bag off the side of the roof and jumping down after it. When Ghost reached the edge, he discovered a small balcony. Rojas must’ve gone inside and ducked down.

In the street, MacTavish sprinted a considerable distance to catch up. He shouted up, “He just ran out and went down that side street!”

Ghost nodded and took a few steps back to give himself a running start, then leaped to the next rooftop. The impact of the landing sent a shock wave up his legs. Then he was running again. Rojas was below and headed towards the end of the street. He could jump on him, but he couldn’t risk seriously injuring the HVI or himself.

“ _ Keep going! Rojas is still headed towards your side of the favela! _ ” MacTavish told Roach.

“ _ I’m under heavy fire! _ ”

“Roach! Don’t let the militia pin you down for too long! Use your flashbangs on them!” A young man climbed up on the rooftop, Dragunov hanging off his back and a bandolier across his chest. Before he even got the chance to react, Ghost checked him off the side of the building.

Rojas reached the end of the street and hopped a fence to another small courtyard and a network of alleys that’d take him back the way he came. At roughly the same time, MacTavish came to the mouth of that sidestreet and skid on his toes as he turned and ran down. “ _ I’ve lost sight of him again! Ghost, talk to me! _ ”

Ghost sprinted to catch up. “I’m onto him! He’s trying to double back through the alleys below!”

“ _ Roger that! Stay on him! _ ”

Rojas exited the mouth of the alleys and sprinted into the marketplace, the fabric canopies and stalls obscured him from view. Ghost cursed and climbed down to street level to find him again. He caught Rojas’ retreating backside as more militia swarmed and added to the confusion. “I’ve got a visual on Rojas! He’s cutting through the market!”

“ _ Roger that! I’ll head for the rooftops and try to cut him off on the right! He’s gonna have no choice but to head west! _ ” Just as MacTavish finished his sentence, he appeared atop one building and jumped to the next. Crazy bastard took out his sidearm and shot a guy in the face as he ran past and out of sight.

Ghost meant to go through and stay hot on Rojas’ heels, but he ended up pinned down behind a half wall and nestled in a cluster of chicken cages. “This isn’t gonna work…” He peaked up from cover and shot a few men down, but had to immediately take cover again when a shotgun blast struck the wall. Beside him, a chicken squawked as it exploded with blood and feathers. “I’m taking a lot of fire from the militia, I don’t think I can track him through the market! I’m gonna have to find another way around!”

He ran from cover and sprinted east to circumnavigate the market. Chicken feathers fluttered off his shoulder and clothing. Up above, he spotted Rojas again, now missing the duffel bag. He must’ve ditched it. “Be advised, I’m about half a klick east of the market, I can see Rojas running across the rooftops on my right side!”

“ _ Roger that! Roach! We’re still corralling him closer to your side of the hill! Keep an eye open for Rojas! He’s making his way across the rooftops! _ ”

“ _ I see him! _ ”

The street was empty. If there was ever a chance, now was it. Ghost took aim. “Sir, I’ve got Rojas in my sights! We can go for a clean leg shot! We can end it here!”

“ _ Negative! We can’t risk it! Do not engage! _ ”

“Bollocks!” Ghost lowered his gun and quickly amended his outburst. “Roger that!”

“ _ Roach! I’ve spotted Rojas, he’s making a run for it! He’s headed your way! _ ” A second later, MacTavish added, “ _ And don’t shoot him! We need him alive and unharmed! _ ”

When all this was said and done, Ghost would slap MacTavish in the fucking dick for being so bloody difficult. Absolute bullshit.

“ _ Roach, we’re going to cut him off at the summit, keep pushing him that way! Go! Go! _ ”

Ghost ran along, trying to get another beat on Rojas. Above him, he spotted MacTavish again, so their target couldn’t be far. Rojas came running from an alley several meters ahead. He was so close that Ghost could practically count the individual beads of sweat on his face. Ghost tried to close the distance, but as he reached out to grab him, an RPG exploded to his left and knocked him off his feet. Rojas kept going.

MacTavish took out the person who fired the RPG. “ _ Ghost, he’s going for that motorcycle! _ ”

Ghost pulled out his sidearm. “No, he’s not!” He fired two shots. The first pinged off the chrome and the second popped the back tire.

“[Fuck!]” Rojas abandoned the bike and ran behind another building.

Ghost pulled himself up and collected his rifle. He wasn’t that badly hurt, all things considered.

“ _ Okay, we’ve got eyes on Rojas- Wait! Ah shite! He’s headed back towards you! _ ”

Sure enough, Rojas came running out from where he just went. Ghost fired in front of Rojas, which was enough to spook him and drive him back into the alley, and ran after him to prevent him from coming back.

“ _ Nice! He’s breaking to the right again! Roach, if you see him, do not shoot him! I need him unharmed! _ ” There was more that MacTavish said to Roach, but Ghost missed about half of it as he chased after Rojas.

Another turn and Ghost lost him. Rojas had just up and vanished, and there were too many damn places he could’ve gone. “Where is he, where is he?”

“ _ Got a visual! He’s over there, sliding down the tin rooftops! _ ”

Ghost tracked where MacTavish was pointing up above and spotted Rojas as he reached a landing and struggled to catch his bearings. “I’ve got another clear leg shot!”

“ _ Negative! Not unless you wanna carry him back out with all this militia breathing down your neck! I need him unharmed! _ ”

Ghost cursed under his breath and ran in Rojas’ direction. There had to be a way up on the rooftops. Rojas ran across a makeshift bridge from one roof to a balcony, causing the whole unstable structure to bounce with each step.

“ _ Ghost, I’m going far right! _ ”

Where the fuck was he? The Captain up and vanished. Meanwhile Rojas was about to duck inside that building and there was no way in hell Ghost would reach it in time to intercept him. “He’s gonna get away!”

“No, he’s not.” In the next instant, as Rojas ran across the balcony, the glass door to it exploded and MacTavish came flying out. He fucking  _ rugby-style tackled Rojas _ , sending both of them falling two stories down and into the roof of a green sedan. The top crunched under their combined weight, sending more glass shards flying. Without missing a beat, MacTavish grabbed Rojas and held a pistol to his face. Ghost hopped up on the hood to assist, pointing the muzzle of his rifle down at him. “Frontrunner, this is Bravo 6. We’ve got the package. I repeat, we have got the package.”

From the opposite side of the clearing, Roach came running up the path and slowed to a stop, panting.

Ghost switched frequencies to get in contact with Command. “Command, ready for dust off. Send the chopper. Coordinates to fol-”

“ _ Negative, Bravo 5. We’re detecting a massive number of bogeys in your area. Over. _ ”

Ghost glanced up at the sky, that clear as day blue sky. Nary a bird, aircraft or otherwise. Un-fucking-believable. “Bollocks! The skies are clear! Send the chopper now!”

“ _ We can’t send air support at this time. Out. _ ”

MacTavish cast him a brief look, his brows knitted with concern, and then returned his attention squarely on Rojas.

Ghost sighed, a deep, flagrant anger radiating in his chest. “Command’s got their head up their arse. We’re on our own.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it for now,” MacTavish said. “Doc, we have Rojas. What’s the ETA on your team meeting up with us?”

“ _ We’ll be there in 20. _ ”

“Roger that. Stay alert, the militia are still crawling all over this side of the favela.”

“ _ Copy that. We’ll be there. _ ”

Ghost looked over to Roach, who largely got his breathing under control. In either of his hands were Mini-Uzis, and both were shaking. “You alright, mate?”

He swallowed and nodded. “I am.”

“Good. Let’s secure this bastard and find a better spot before the militia catch up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same shit; Different POV.  
> This chapter was... well... it exists. I don't know why, but Younger Me had this thing where I wrote the campaign but with zero changes and only sometimes from a different POV. It always read like I copy/pasted the game transcript off the wiki and then added ill-fitting dialogue tags and weird interjecting narrative that made no sense coming from a grown ass man. I facepalmed a good seven or eight times reading the original chapter.
> 
> Firstly, I didn't know how to count apparently, because this chapter was also labeled "P32" just like the last chapter. This isn't the first time that I screwed up the chapter numbers. I guess it's fitting enough, because the only thing that happens in this is Takedown, which plays out EXACTLY like the game with no deviation, so it may as well be an extension of the previous chapter.
> 
> In Plan B, this is all coming from Captain MacTavish's POV, I chose to swap to Ghost's because I felt like it'd be way less removed from what you see in game. Here are a few gems from badly-written-MacTavish's perspective:  
> -I would've drove but Granite discided, through a near arguement, that he would drive. Roach claimed passenger seat and I was stuck in the back. (Granite is the driver in this version. I changed him to Merlin, going based off the Remastered, which gave him a name.)  
> -'Okay what's the first thing you do if you're unarmed and there is a firefight outside?' I asked in my head. 'Oh I know! Run into the streets like a bunch of startled cattle! Find cover you idiots!'  
> -"Oh what happened to teh days where men could stand to see others scream bloody murder," Ghost joked as he picked through his tools.
> 
> I don't know why, but there was also no sense of timing in the original. You get MacTavish yelling at Roach about two separate things in the same breath and events that just happen. I clearly lacked an understanding for what anybody was talking about too and took a lot of stuff at face value with no deep introspection or consideration for circumstances.
> 
> As always, stay safe and much love! <3


	16. Hornet's Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Plan B Chapter 33
> 
> 33\. Hornet's Nest. I'm serious.

Cellphones weren’t an item a soldier carried on their person very often. This was something MacTavish was so used to that he hadn’t bothered to replace his Blackberry he’d had since 2008, even as its battery slowly died. It stayed turned off in his quarters, under a stack of papers, and only ever saw the acknowledgement of a passing glance when he had to organize his desk. He was pretty used to waiting till he made it back on base to make calls.

But damn, even that stupid half dead fossil would’ve been convenient at a time like this.

After Command snubbed ‘em, Ghost kept flipping channels and trying to reach anybody with any potential to get them out of Brazil, but every line was tied up. MacTavish may have arranged a fallback plan, but he didn’t expect the circumstances he’d need to use it to be this dire. The next thing he tried was to contact Nikolai via the helicopter’s radio, but all he got was dead air. The whole thing must’ve been off. That left him with one last solution: Nikolai’s burner phone.

He, Doc, and Klepto hunted down a payphone in the nearby area. It took them precious minutes longer to scrounge up the change to make the call, since nobody carried centavos. They swept the nearby buildings and turned up a filthy piggybank abandoned in an empty house; probably belonged to some kid who MacTavish hoped was hiding somewhere safe with their parents. Nobody expected it to have anything. Doc was halfway through saying, “There’s no way.” when Klepto yanked off the stopper on the bottom and a handful of coins fell out, shutting the medic up. The three of them agreed to never bring this up again and returned to the payphone. For all this effort they put in robbing an eight-year-old’s candy fund, Nikolai better not have muted the bloody thing. MacTavish rapped his fingers on the box while listening to the dial tone.

“ _ [Yes?] _ ”

“Nikolai, it’s me. How soon can you be at the primary extraction point?”

“ _... Give me twenty minutes. I will be there, my friend. _ ”

“See you then. Out.” Behind him, he heard a snort. MacTavish internally withered and hung up the phone. “Something funny, Klepto?”

Klepto stopped pressing his lips shut to reply tersely, “No, Sir.”

_ Just let it go... _ “Let’s meet up with the others.”

When they returned to the small clearing, Ghost spotted them first and approached them, saying, “Sir, the militia’s closing in. Almost 200 of them, front and back.”

There was still a chance. “We’re gonna have to fight our way to the LZ. Let’s go!”

Ghost nodded. “What about Rojas?”

Currently, Rojas was strapped to a metal frame against the wall; the jumper cables connected to a pilfered car battery lay disconnected on the ground. More tools lay set about purposefully on a rickety wooden table, from drills to plyers and a snubbed out cigarette. Rojas looked like absolute hell, heaving and wheezing, on the cusp of passing out, and blood stained his chest from all the relatively minor injuries inflicted. Even with a crude, improvised set up, Ghost did a serious number on him for the small shred of intel they got. Rojas had to know more than about a single grudge Makarov harbored for some nameless Russian prisoner, but to get anything substantial out of him required more time that they wouldn’t have unless they dragged his half dead ass out of here. “The streets’ll take care of him.”

“Works for me,” Ghost said.

MacTavish took up the rear as they advanced up the path. “Nikolai! We’re at the top level of the favela, surrounded by militia! Bring the chopper to the market, do you copy, over!”

“ _ Okay, my friend, I am on the way! _ ”

The first gunshots sailed past them as they reached an open, paved plaza with a building in the middle. This was it. “Everyone get ready! Lock and load!”

“Let’s do this!” Ghost shouted.

The squad fanned out over the large space as the militia flooded the area from all sides and engaged them. MacTavish stayed left and took cover behind a few white barrels and opened fire. Squealing tires ripped through the air, piercing as a thumbtack to the eardrum. In the next instant, a technical burst through the gate and did a donut while the machine gunner sprayed in a wide circle.

“Shit! I’m hit!” Rocket ducked behind the half wall.

A couple bullets hit the gunner in the face, and he dropped from the truck bed as the technical sped in a large circle around the square. Near Rocket, Roach knelt down and out of sight.

Another revving engine approached. MacTavish’s cheek hurt from how hard he scowled. “We got another technical! Take it out!” This one stayed much, much closer to the gate and out of his line of sight. He could run somewhere and get a better angle, but that’d leave him open to the hostiles up high.

The machine gun fire halted, followed by a cry in Portuguese. MacTavish ducked and glanced to the side. Rocket was up again, a compression bandage around his bicep, and his rifle tight in his hands. “Technical’s down!”

“Head through that gate! Keep pushing to the evac point!”

Moving up, Ghost shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” As their team advanced, the militia pushed back. “Roach, take ‘em out!”

Roach ran up to the closer technical and manned its machine gun to cover their advance, and fell in behind them once they reached the gate.

This was only the beginning of many challenges. It didn’t matter if it was a street or a clearing, there was almost consistently a firefight. They reached the market by the skin of their teeth, and just past that was the LZ. The entire way, MacTavish ticked off smaller goals in his head; get through this yard, then get to the end of this street, reach the market… He didn’t have a second to think whether the LZ was safe, or if there was a window of opportunity to escape, not until he heard the helicopter overhead.

“There’s Nikolai’s Pave Low! Let’s go!” He tapped on his comm as they cut through a building. “Nikolai! ETA 20 seconds! Be ready for immediate dustoff!”

“ _ That may not be fast enough! I see more militia closing in on the market! _ ”

MacTavish’s stomach did a barrel roll. “Pick up the pace! Let’s go!”

Please, God, two minutes. Not even two minutes. Just long enough for them to get on board and in the sky safely. Please…

Roach took point, but he stalled at the door leading out to the LZ. MacTavish caught up and too balked. The militia were already here, and they fired RPGs that narrowly missed the underbelly of Nikolai’s helicopter, leaving a crisscross of smoke trails in their wake.

“ _ It’s too hot! We will not survive this landing! _ ”

Nope _. Nope. Nope  _ **_Nope Nope!!_ ** “Nikolai, wave off, wave off! We’ll meet you at the secondary LZ instead! Go!”

The helicopter pulled up and flew off. One last RPG struck a roof below him, exploding in a bright red burst that scattered bits of concrete. “ _ Very well, I will meet you there! Good luck! _ ”

He had the worst damn feeling about this, but there was nowhere to go but forward. “Come on! We’ve got to get to the rooftops, this way!” MacTavish led the others across the clearing and took a running start to scale the 3 meter high wall. Once he was on the roof, he covered the others as they climbed after him and ran ahead. He reached down a hand for Rocket to take to help him up, and Roach was last.

The helicopter roared as it passed them and to the secondary LZ. “ _ My friend, from up here, it looks like the whole village is trying to kill you! _ ”

MacTavish hopped from a tin awning and took two small steadying steps to keep from tripping off the side, and jumped again to the next roof. “Tell me something I don’t know! Just get ready to pick us up!”

Ghost slapped a bedsheet on a clothesline out of his face and cut ahead of the team. “We’re running out of rooftop!”

“We can make it! Go! Go! Go!”

Ghost jumped first and cleared the gap with ease, landing on the lower ledge and rolling into a crouch. Next went Chemo and Rocket. MacTavish reached the edge and landed with a heavy thud. Klepto and Doc jumped after him, making it across. The tin roof gave an indignant creak at all their weight.

Only one they were missing was… “Roach! What’s the holdup?”

The Sergeant chucked his gun aside, took a running start and leaped towards them with a clipped shout. He struck the edge flat footed, pitched forward, and slapped the roof flat on his stomach, dislodging the tin plate. It, and by extension him, hung off the side by a thread.

MacTavish rushed for the side and swung his hand down to grab Roach. Roach even tried to reach for him. But the plate came loose. MacTavish’s hand cut through empty air as Roach fell backwards. The only things MacTavish heard were the blood rushing in his ears, and that terrified scream milliseconds before Roach hit the bottom with a thud.

Rocket scurried to the side. “No! Roach!”

Chemo grabbed Rocket’s shoulder and pulled him back. “Dude, back up!”

“We have to get him,” Rocket snapped, shoving Chemo off.

A bullet struck the brick side of the building close by. “There’s no time,” Ghost said, “the militia’s catching up. We need to get on that heli.”

MacTavish smacked the roof and stood up. “Ghost’s right. Everybody get onboard that Pave Low.”

Once they were all on board, Nikolai craned his head back and asked, “Is that everyone?”

“We lost someone,” MacTavish told him, “can we circle around and see if we can’t find him?”

Nikolai gave him a tight frown. “Yes, I can bank back. Do you know where he is?”

“We do. He fell into the streets close to the LZ.”

They got up in the air and looped around to get a look at the streets. About half the team crowded around the side door to spot Roach.

“Do you see him?”

“No…”

“Hey! Wait, there he is!”

“Fuck, he’s still there…?”

“Think the fall killed him?”

“No, no, look! He’s moving, sorta.”

MacTavish and Ghost shooed them out of the way and yelled into the comms, hoping and praying that Roach would hear them and get his ass in gear. It didn’t seem to have all that much effect.

“Bloody hell… The militia’s closing in.” Ghost pointed out the hostiles approaching Roach’s position, slow but purposeful as a pack of wolves.

They couldn’t land and get him. Roach had to wake up. MacTavish tried again, and this time he caught a bit more movement from the downed Sergeant. “Roach! Roach! Wake up!”

“Roach! We can see them from the chopper! They’re coming for you, dozens of ‘em!” Ghost said.

Slowly and clumsily, Roach got to his feet, using the wall for support. It was a step in the right direction.

“Roach! There’s too many of them! Get the hell out of there and find a way to the rooftops! Move!” When Roach stumbled forward into the nearest doorway, MacTavish continued to urge him to run. They lost sight of him in the labyrinth of houses and alleys, but they saw the militia running to converge on whatever his position was in the middle of all that. Not even a minute later, Roach jumped out a doorway, arms flailing, and landed on the rooftops. “Roach! I see you! Jump down to the rooftops and meet us south of your position! Go!”

“Gas is very low! I must leave in thirty seconds!” Nikolai interjected.

Not good, not good. “Roach! We’re running on fumes here! You got thirty seconds!”

“There’s nowhere to land there!” Rocket said.

“There’s nowhere to land anywhere,” Ghost shot back. “Get the ladder, we’re gonna have to improvise.”

They hung the ladder out the door. A bullet pinged off the hull of the Pave Low, so MacTavish pushed Ghost out of the way. “Everybody stay over there.” Three — no, four — RPGs whizzed past, aimed too low. Roach came running out of an apartment and onto the balcony. “Jump for it!”

Roach sprang from the ledge, another scream tearing from his lungs. He caught the ladder and swung with his momentum before he could securely set his feet on the rung.

MacTavish took a deep breath as Roach gawked up at him. He called into the cockpit, “Nikolai! We got him! Get us out of here!”

“Where to, my friend?” Already Nikolai flew away from the buildings, out of range of the militia’s weapons.

“Just get us to the sub…”

Roach didn’t stay hanging on the ladder for too long. He clambered up and was greeted by the rest of the team. Chemo and Rocket chattered while the Sergeant sat dazed on the floor of the helicopter and rested his head against the bench.

“Alright, alright. Give the man some space.” Doc ushered both of them off and knelt down beside Roach. “Hey, look at me. Let me check.”

Ghost reeled in the ladder and shut the door. “That could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” MacTavish agreed, sinking down into a seat. All the exhaustion from running after Rojas and then running to escape the favela caught up to him and seized the muscles in his legs. He couldn’t stand again even if he wanted to. “Roach?”

The Sergeant looked his way while Doc cleaned a scrape on the side of his face. “Yes, Sir?”

“You’re on circuits and cross fit when we get back to base.”

Roach sighed. “Guess I should’ve seen that coming… Ow, shite, that stings.”

“I bet it does,” Doc said, waving the antiseptic wipe. “You got a full fucking pebble stuck in your cheek. Now hold still.”

With the steady return to peace, MacTavish shut his eyes and rested his head against the wall. Maybe he could get a wee bit of rest before they’d rendezvous with Shepherd in the U.S.S. Chicago.

“How has the search for your missing man been going?” Nikolai asked, effectively killing whatever notion of a catnap he had.

Of all things he remembered telling Nikolai, missing two operators wasn’t one. MacTavish cracked open one eye, but he couldn’t see the Russian pilot’s face. “How do you know about that?”

Nikolai muttered something in Russian, too quiet for him to catch, and said, “I sent a message to Fire Base Phoenix a couple of weeks ago. They should have given it to General Shepherd.”

“I didn’t hear about a message,” MacTavish replied, sitting up. “What d’you say?”

“One: Scarab is safe and with the other Loyalists at our hideout. She is well enough to travel, and we were waiting for word on when she can return.”

“Wait, did he say Scarab…?” Roach murmured.

“Scarab’s okay?” Klepto also said. This sparked a whole quiet side conversation from the men on the opposite end of the helicopter.

MacTavish caught the look Ghost shot him, his eyes wide with confusion and alarm. Scarab wasn’t in any danger this entire time? That was one less person to worry about and made the situation 50% better all on its own. The fact he didn’t hear about this though was troubling. Why would Shepherd hide that? Scarab should have been flown back to base already, not still labeled MIA. MacTavish asked, “Anything else?”

“Two: The other operator was taken by one of Makarov’s men. We do not know where she is.”

This news rendered the entire cabin silent. Makarov had to be the worst person Heatstroke could have ended up in the hands of, arguably worse than dying. Odds were that psychopath would make a show of murdering her, so the fact they hadn’t heard about it must have meant that he was trying to get intel out of her or was torturing her in some shape or form.

The thought of his men getting captured and tortured was something that kept MacTavish awake at night. It was an actual risk that came with the job, and they could only prepare for it in case it happened. There was training specifically for how to conduct oneself in such a situation, required for everyone here, and measures to take in order to rescue someone if they’re taken prisoner. Heatstroke received all that training and did well in the high stress environment she worked in, but she was also the same person to faint when she saw the scene of Brandy’s suicide. That mousy woman never started a commotion or got into trouble, in fact she was normally trying to defuse situations when they came up.

Maybe her non confrontational behavior would be her biggest advantage, and maybe she’d make it home alive.

Why the hell didn’t Shepherd say anything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again. We continue the misadventures of the Task Force men getting a back alley Brazilian wax.  
> There wasn't a whole lot of material to work with in Plan B for this chapter. Seriously. It was just the mission playing out with no deviation. Things in the original were again a weird blend of summary and trying to cram in the scripted dialogue. I decided to play around with it this time around and have some fun.  
> I didn't think about it when I was a kid, but the whole "Let's go find a payphone" line makes so much more sense now that I'm older and did research. Didn't think about it much, but a number of militaries banned the use of cell phones because they're easy to trace, making it a great wealth of intel for whoever your enemies are. Depending on the nature of a soldier's deployment, they might not be allowed to have a cell phone, and I seriously doubt they'd be taking them on missions if they did. Meanwhile in Plan B, Younger Me was having these dumbasses pull out phones all the time like some insane plot device (P.S. it's not specified in the original, but they were flip phones because that's all I had as a kid and all I understood). I kinda ran with the idea that Soap's got this shitastic phone that barely functions, and wouldn't you know it, Blackberry phones were popular around when he would've gotten one and I used to borrow my dad's to play Dig Dug.  
> Another thing I didn't appreciate all that much when I was younger was that this mission happens literally an hour after Takedown, and that's not even touching the fact that when you finish Takedown, the next mission you play is with the Rangers and it takes place BEFORE Takedown. I didn't even notice these timeline shenanigans until I was flipping through the wiki. I thought the only instance when it's a little "complicated" is when you get to the end of one Rangers mission, crash your helicopter, and on the opposite side of the globe, Contingency is taking place and Captain The-Ends-Justify-The-Means Price launches a fucking nuke which saves you the next time you get back to the Rangers.
> 
> This chapter was initially challenging to strike a balance with, but I had fun.  
> As always, stay safe and much love! <3


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